Evening Star Newspaper, November 11, 1927, Page 40

THE FOUR STRAGGLERS INSTALLMENT L PROLOGUE. The Four of Them. : HE crash of guns. 4 flare across the heavel Battle. Dismay. Death. cha & And four men in a thicket, One of them spoke: “A Dbloody Hun prison, that's us! "My Gawd! Where are we?” ‘Another answered caustioally: “Monsieur, we are lost—and very tired. A third man laughed. The langh was short. “A Frenchman! Where i hell &1d you come from?” “Where you and the rest of us came from.” The Frencl;'m;‘n'?uvflu lished, his Englis! ess. R:?me from the tickling of the German bayonets.” The first man elaborated the states ment gratuitously: “I don't know about you ‘uns, but our crowd was done in good order And proper two days ago. Gawd!- Ain't there no end to 'em? Millions! And us running! What I says is let ‘em have the blinking Channel ports and Jet’s clear out. I wasn't moways in favor of mussing up in this when the bleeding Parliament says up and at ‘em in the beginning, leastways noth- ing except the navy.” “Drafted, I ta third man coolly. There was no answer. The fourth man said nothing. There a whirr in the air * * * closer * * * closer; a roar that surged at the ear drums; a terrific crash near at hand; a tremble of the earth like a shuddering sob. The first man echoed the sob. “Carry on! Carry on! I can’t carry on. Not for hours. I've been running for two days. I can't even sleep. My vd! it?" observed the “No good of carrying on for a bit,” snapped the third man. “There’s no place to carry on to. They seem to be all around us.” “That's the first one that’s come near us,” said the Frenchman. ‘“May- be it's only—what do you call it?—a straggler.” *“Like us,” said the third man. A flare, afar off, hung and dropped. Nebulous, ghostlike, a faint shimmer lay upon the thicket. It endured for but a moment. Three men, huddled against the tree trunks, torn, ragged and disheveled men, stared into each THE EVENING STAR., WASHINGTON, D. C. FRIDAY, Nuy poBR 11,1027, & Hidden Treasure, Love, the Underworld Mingle i This Romance BY FRANK L. PACKARD Aauthor of ““The Miracle Ma it was being,done, you know! Rather! Only; inr this'case the papers got hold of it'and.played-it up a bit as a won- derful example, and that's how three men, do- with the others, got hold of it, He lifted his rifle and, feeling out, too—no, I'm wrong there. Lord See- ton’s valet naturally had inside infos | st man sud- | A copper L A bloody, It was inky bl The third man's voice blackness like a knife. “You put that gun down! T'll do all the gun handling there's going to be | done. Drop i A snarl answered him—a snarl and the rattle of an object falling to the ground. w k in the thicket. | cut into the other's faces. A fourth man lay out- stretched, motionless, at full length upon the ground, as though he were asleep or dead. His face was hidden because it was pillowed on the earth. “Well, 'm damned!” said the. third man, and whistled softly under his breath. “Monsieur means by that?” inquired the Frenchman politely. “Means?” repeated the third man. “Oh, yes. I mean it's queer. Half an hour ago we were each a separate bit of driftwood tossed about out there and now here we are blown together from the four winds and linked up as close to each other by a common stake —our lives—as ever men could be. I say it's queer.” He lifted his rifle and, feeling out, prodded once or twice with the butt. It made a dull, thudding sound. “What are you doing?” asked the 4,” said the one in, I fancy. the luck- {est one of the lot.” “You're bloody. well right he is!” gulped the first man. “I wouldn’t mind being dead if it was all over and I was dead. It's the dying and the thinking about it I can’t stick.” “I can't see anything queer about it.” The Frenchman was judicial. He reverted to the third man’s re- mark -as though no interruption had occurred in his train of thought. “We all knew it was coming, this last big— what do you call it—push of the Boche. It has come. It is gigantic. It is tremendous. A tidal wave. Everything has gone down before it— units all broken up, mingled one with another, a melee. It has been suave qui peut for thousands like us who never saw each other before, who did not even know each other existed. I see nothing queer in it that some of us, though knowing nothing of each other, yet having the same single pur- pose, rest if only for a moment, shel- ter if only for a moment, should have come together here. To me it is not you're right,” said 'Perhaps adventitious ‘would have been better than queer.” “Not adventitious,” dissented the Frenchman. “Since we have been nothing to each other in the past, and since our meeting -now offers us col- lectively no better chance of safety or escape than we individually had be- fore, there is nothing adventitious about it.” “Perhaps again I am wrong.” There ‘was a curious drawl in the third man’s voice now. “In fact, I will admit it. It is neither queer nor adventitious. It is quite—oh, quite!—beyond that. It can only be due to the considered machinations of the devil on his throne in the pit of hell having his bit of a fling at us—and a laugh!” “You're bloody well right!” mumbled the first man. “Damn!” said the Frenchman with l‘nlperlly. “I don’t understand you at The third man laughed softly. “Well, I don’t know how else to ex- plain it, then,” he said. “The last time we—"" “The last time!" interrupted the Frenchman. “I did’ not get a very good look at you when that flare went up, I'll admit, but enough so that I would swear I had never seen you be- fore.” “Quite s0,” acknowledged the third man. “Gawd!” whispered the first man. “Look at that! Listen to that!” A light, lurid, intense, for miles und, opened the darkness—and died out. An explosion rocked the earth. “Ammunition dump! said the Frenchman. “I'm sure of it now. I've never seen any of you before.” The third man now sat with his rifle across his knees. The fourth man had not from his original position. “I thought you were officers, blimy if 1 didn’t, from the way you talked,” said the first man. “Just a blinking Tommy and a blinking Poilu!” “‘Monsieu said the Jrenchman, and there was a challenge in his voice, “I never forget a face.” “Nor 1,” said the third man quietly. “Nor other things—things that hap- pened a bit hack—after they put the draft into England, but before they called up the older classes. 1 don't know just how they worked it over here—that is, how some of them kept out of it as long as they did!"” “Monsieur!” cried the Frenchman. “Monsieur, you go too far! And—mon- sieur appears to have a sense of humor peculiarly his own—perhaps monsieur "vill be good enough to ex- plain what he is laughing at?” “With pleasure,” said the third man calmly. “I was laughing at the recol- lection of a night, not like this one, though there’s a certain analogy to it for all that, when an attack was made on—a strong box in a West End resi- cence in London. Lord Seeton’s, to be precise.” The first man stirred. He seemed to be groping around him where he moved “There were three of them,”. said tha third man composedly. “The valet, who hadn’t reached his class in the draft; a Frenchman, who spoke mar- velous English, which is, perhaps, after all, the reason why he had not yet, at that time, served in France, and—and some one else.” “Monsieur,” said the Frenchman silkily, “you become interesting.” “The curious part of it is,” said the third man, “that each of them in turn got the swag, and each of them could have got away with it with hardly any doing at all, if it hadn't been that in turn each one chivied the other. The Rrenchman took it from the valet as the valet, stuffed like a pouter pigeon with diamonds and brooches and pendants and little odds and ends like that, was on his way to a certain pinch-faced fence named Konitsky, in a slimy bit of neighborhood in the East_End; the Frenchman, who was an Englishman in France, took the swag to a strange little place in a strange little street not far from the Bank of the Seine, the place of one Pere Mouche, a place that in times of great stress also became the shelter and home of this same Frenchman, who—shall ‘I say?—I believe is out- standingly entitied to the honor of having raised his profession to a de- gree of art unapproached by any of his confreres in France today.” “I Have Mentioned No Names—" “Sacre nom!” said the Frenchman, with a gasp. ‘“There is only one Eng- lishman who knew that, and I thought he was dead. An Englishman beside whom the Frenchman you speak of is not to be compared. You are—" “I haven’t mentioned any names," said the third man smoothly. “Why should you?” “You are right,” said the French- man. “Perhaps we have already said too much. There is a fourth here.” “No,” said the third man. “I had not forgotten him.” He toyed with the rifie on his knee. “But I had thought perhaps you would have rec- ognized the valet’s face.” “Strike me pink! muttered the first man. “So Frenchy's the blighter that did me in, was he?” “It is the uniform and the dirt per- haps and the very poor light,” said the Frenchman apologetically. “But you—pardon, monsieur; I mean the other of the three—I did not see him. And monsieur will perhaps understand that I am deeply interested in the ne:ofs whom had anything to | rest of the story."” The third man did not answer. A sort of momentary weird and breath- like Bayer Aspirtn. directions. t. *“Foolish days! Perverted patriot- ism!” said the third man. “The fam- ily jewels, the hereditary treasures, gathered together to be offered the altar of England’s need: Faney! But less silence had settled on the thicket, | from neuritis or deep-seated rheumatism, there’s nothing ust make certain it's genuine; it must Bayer on the box and on every tablet, All druggists, with proven “Jimmie Dale." ef BB R R A R S R TR RN I MR HEE on all around, on the night, save only the whininz of some oncoming thing through the .. “Whine: ¢ *.® whine * v The nerves, tautened, cere jangling | thin, d his rifle. prodded once or twice with the bu the whining shell the thicket a minor gone on the instant, And somewhere burst. And in sh—a flash, e-blindin The first man screamed out: “What have you done?” “I think he was done in anywa id the third man calmly. It was well to make sure. fawd!” whimpered the’ first man. Monsieur,” “said the Frenchman, “T have always heard that you were incomparable. I salute you! As you id, you had not forgotten. We can speak at ease now. The rest of the story—' ’, The third man laughed. Come to me in London—after the he said, “and I will tell it to And perhaps there will be— other things to talk about. “I shall be honored,” sald the Frenchman. *We three! I begin to understand now. A house should not be divided against itself. Is it not so? We shbuld go far! 1It.is fate tonight that—" “Or the devi said the third man. “My Gawa!” The first man began to laugh—a cracked, jarring laugh. “After the war, the blinking war— after hell! There ain't no end, there ain’t no—" And then a flare again hung in the heavens and in the thicket three men sat huddled against the tree trunks, torn, ragged and disheveled men, but they were not staring into each other’s faces now—they were staring, their eyes magnetically attracted, at a spot on the ground where a man, a man murdered, should be lying. But the man was not there. The fourth man was gone. L Three Years Later. The East End being, as it were, more akin to the technique and the mechanics of the thing, applauded the craftsmanship. The West End, a little grimly on the part of the men, and with a loquacity not wholly free from nervousness on the part of the wom- en, wondered who would be next. “The cove as is runnin’ that show,” said' the East End, with its tongue delightedly in- its cheek, “knows 'is wye abaht. Wish I was 'im!” “The police are nincompoops!” sald the outraged masculine West End. “‘Absolutely!” “Yes, of course! It's quite too im- possible for words!” said the female of the West End. ‘“‘One never knows when one’s own—do let me give you some tea, dear Lady Wintern * * *" From something that had merely been a faint and passing. interest, a subject of casual remark, it had grown steadily, insidiously, had become con- versationally =~ epidemic. 'All London talked;, the papers talked—virulently. Alone . in that at metropolis, New Scotland Yard was silent, due, if the journals ‘were to be believed, to the fact that that world-famous institu- come upon a state of hope- atrophied senility. With foreknowledge obtained in some amazing manner, with ingenu- ity, with boldness, and invariably with success, a series of crimes, stretch- « ey PIRIN You doubtless deépend on Aspirin to make short work of head- aches, but rcmgmber that lf:s just as dependable an’antidote for many other pains! Neuralgia? Many have found real relief in a Bayer Aspirin tablet. Or for toothache; an effective way to relieve it, and the one thing doctors are willing you should give a child— of any age. Whether to break up a cold, or relieve the serious pain fave Physicians prescribe Bayer Aspirin; it does NOT affect the heart Aupirin is the trade mark of Bayer Minufactude ef Monoaceticacidester of Rulicylieacld’ ""I‘“\-;. % had been, with year: were being, perpetrated sistent regularity. Thes been confined to the London. save on a few when the perpetrators = 1t made a dull, thudding sound. eld, because certain wealthy for the moment o The journals | slightly a! West Enders ha changed their ha at_spasmodic inte printed a_sum- mary of the transactions. In jewels and plate and cash the figures had renched an astounding total, not one penny of which had ever been recov- ered or traced. Secret wall safes, hid- den depositories of valuables, opened | night was uninviting | with obliging celerity and disgorged | their contents to some apparition { which immediately . vanished. There | was no clue. It simply happened again nd again. Traps had been set with patience and considerable artifice. The | traps had never been violated.’ Lon- don was accustomed to crimes, just as ¢ great city was—there were hun- ds of crimes committed in Lon- but these were of a genre all their own. ~These were distinctive, | these were not to be confused “with | other crimes, nor their authors with | other criminals. And so London talked—and waited. it was raining—a thin drizzle. The without, cozy within the precincts of a’certain weil f | known West End club—the Claremont, S | to Two men sat in the be exact. by the win- lounge, in a little rece: dow. One, a man of perhaps 33, of athletic build, with _short-cropped {black hair and clean-shaven face, a one-time captain of territorials in the {1t , and though once known on |the club membership roll as Capt. Francis Newcombe, was to be found {here now as Francis Newcombe, esq.; the other, a Ve much older man, with a thin, gray, little face and thin, gray hair, would, on recourse to the club roll, have been found to be Sir Harris Greaves, Bart. The baronet made a gesture with his cigar indicative of profound-dis- gust. B Democracy!” he ejaculated. “The world safe for democracy! 1 am nau- seated with that phrase. What does it mean? What did it ever mean? We have had three years now since the war which was to work that marvel and T have seen no signs of it yet. So far as I-— Capt. Francis Newcombe laughed. “And yet,” he said, “I embody. in my person one of those sizns. You can hardly deny that, Sir Harris, Cer- tainly I would never have had—shall 1 call it the distinction?—of being ad- mitted to this club had it not been for the democratic leaven working through the war. You remember, of course? An officer and a gentleman! We of England were certainly con- sistent In that respect—while one was an officer one was a gentleman. The clubs were all pretty generally thrown open to officers during the war. Some of them came from the Lord knows where. T. G.'s they were called, you remember—temporary gentlemen. Aft- erward—but, of course, that's another story so far as most of them were voncerned. Take my own case. I en- listed in the ranks and toward the lat- ter end of the war I obtained my com- mission—I became a T. G. And as such g enjoyed the privileges of this club. T was enventually, however, one of the fortunate ones. At the close of the war the club took me on its per: manent strength, and, ergo, I became a—permanent gentleman. Democ- racy! Prvt. Francis Newcombe—Capt. Francls Newcombe — Francis New- combe, esq. “A rather thin ‘case,” smiled the baronet. “What I was about to say when you interrupted me was that, so far as I can see, all that the world has been made safe for by the war is the active expression of the predatory in- stinct in man. I.refer to the big in- terests, the trusts; to the radical out- croppings of certain labor elements; to—yes!"—he tapped the newspaper that lay on the table beside him—*the simon-pure criminal, such as this mys- terfous gang of desperadoes that has London at its wits’ ends and those of us who have anything to lose in a state of constant apoplex nesapt. Francis Newcombe shook his ead. “I Know the Man Who Is Guilty.” “I think you're wrong, sir,” he said Jjudicially. “It isn’t the aftermath of the war or the result of the war. It is the war of which the recent strug- gle was only a phase. It's been going on since the days of the.cave man. You've only to reduce the nation to the terms of the individual and ycu have it. A nation lusts after some- thing which does not belong to it. It proceeds to take it by force. If it fails it is punished. That is war. The criminal lusts after something. He flings down his challenge. If he is caught he is punished. That is war. What is the difference?” The baronet supped at his Scotch and soda. “H'm! Which brings us?” he sug- gested. “Nowhere!” said Capt. Francis New- combe promptly. “It’'s been going on for ages—it'll go on for all time. Al- ways the individual predatory. Inevi- tably, in cycles, the cumulative indi- vidual running amuck as a nation. ‘Why, you, sir, yourself, a littie while ago, when somebody here in the room made a remark to the effect that he believed this particular series of crimes was directly attributable to the war, because it would seem tL-t some one of ourselves, some one who had the entree everywhere, who, through be- ing contaminated by the filth out there, had lost poise and was prob- ably the guilty one, meaning, I take it, that the chap, finding himself in a hole, wasn't so nice or particular in his choicé of the way out of it as he would have heen but for the war— you, Sir Harris, denied this quite em- phatically. It—er—wouldn't you say, rather bear me out?” The old baronet smiled grirly. “Quite possible!” he said. “But I must confess that my conclusion was based on a very different prem® > from vours. - In fact, for the moment, I was denying the theory that the criminal in question was one of ourselves, quite apart from any bearing the war might have had upon the matter.” The ex-captain of territorials select- ed a cigarette with great care from | his case. “Yes?” he inquired politely. The old baronet cleared his throat. He glanced a little whimsically at his c¢J panion. “It's been 7 hobb—, of course—pure- Iy a hobby—but in an arhateurish sort of wa™ as a criminologist I ve spent a great deal of time and money n—" “By Jo-e' Really!” exclaimed Capt. Newcombe. “I didn’t know, Sir Har- 17 that you He paused sudden- Iy in confus n. “That's anything but a compliment to your reputation, though, I'm afraid, isn’t it? A bit raw of iae! I—I'm sorry, sir.” ‘Not at all,” said the old baronet pleasantly. And then, with a wry smile: ‘ou ¢~ not need feel bad. In ¢ -tain quarters much m. intimate with the subject than you could be supposed tc be I am equally unrecog: nized.” “It’'s very good of you to let me down =o easiy,” said the ex-captain of te-ritorials contritely. “Will you go remermermes, Prosems e cms 10000t sme st smesmssms sme o Look at the tongue, mother! coated, it is a sure sign that your little one’s stomach, liver and bowels need a gentle, thorough cleansing at once. When peevish, cross, listless, pale, doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat or act nat- urally, or is feverish, stomach sour, breath bad, has stomach-ache, sore throat, diarrhoea, full of cold, give a teaspoonful of “California Fig Syrup,” and in a few hours all the foul, constipated waste, undigested food and sour bile gently moves out of the little bowels without griping, and you have a well, playful child again. You needn’t coax sick children to take this harmless, “fruity laxative”; they love its delicious taste, and it always makes them feel splendid. Ask your druggist for a bottle of “California_Fig Syrup,” which has directions for babies, children of all ages and for grown-ups plainly on the hottle. Beware of counterieits .' 1i on, sir? You were saying that you did not believe these crimes were being | perpetrated by one in the same sphere |of life as those who were being victim- ized. Why is that, sir? . | seemed rather logicl.” sty “‘Because,” <aid the old baronet quietly, “I believe I know S W the man | | (Continued in Tomorrow's S*ar) (Want Real FALSE TEETH Comfort? | teeth can now it fear of teeth | No food particles to pain and annoy. | Bvery wearer of fals Gat lagh. “sing ‘witho dropping Gr alipping. rt bk ‘of " them | Easteeth holds teeth” firm' Teodor 3. €00y, pasty’ taste. e U've ever used. For real e ceth today at Peonics Dra ¥ other 0od druz’ atore.— MOTHER! Look at Child’s Tongue if Sick, Cross, Feverish sold here. To be sure you get the genuine, ask to see that it is made by the “California Fig Syrup Com- pany.” Refuse any other kind with contempt. erywhere, ‘you see it now: Split-top Wonder—in the convenient one-pound loaf Always fresh from your Grocer X ROCERS of Washingt on have ‘welcomed it! Wonder Bread —the new Corby split-top loaf in a convenient one-pound size. " It is made from a recipe that calls for plenty of milk, the finest flour and shortening — then it is thoroughly baked to a rich golden brown. This gives Wonder Bread its satisfying flavor —makes it a compact loaf that keeps moist and sweet and does not crumble when you cut and -butter it. Wonder Bread is so unusual, we put it in an unusual wrapper. Look for the bright Wonder 4 wrapper with its gay balloons —your buying guide @ for good bread. Ask your grocer for Wonder Bread — the new split-top Corby loaf. CORBY'S BAKERY—CONTINENTAL BAKING COMPANY .