Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, August 13, 1904, Page 3

| a oo mags a By DOO OOOO DOSNIOoAOoOS Al Woman | mm tum Of Craft C) CJ PSPS aN 8 RL SERRE EN Rt OR at oo OOOO COOOOOOOOOoOOoooooo CHAPTER XVI.—Continuéd. “What ‘ave I done with ’im?” he re- torted. ‘As a man that wants to do the best for ‘imself and ’is family, an’ who knows what ’e ought to do w’ere a lady’s concerned, what d’yer think { should do with ‘om? I've buried ‘om. “Buried him!” She ran at him and caught his arm and twisted him round so that she could see his face more clearly. “Where?” “In the wood,” he replied. “Didn’t { say w’en I first come ’ere that I was a friend, to cover up an’ ‘ide what wasn’t wanted to be seen? That’s the worst of ladies like you; they ’aven’t got no real trust in a friend. Nice thing if anyone ’ad come along, as they might, by daylight, an’ found that. W’ere would you ’ave been, I'd like to know?” The man began to feel his power again and was pressing it home. The effect upon the woman may be imagined. She had been haunted for hours with the dread of that thing down in the woods; she had seen men hurrying toward it in her vivid imag- ination, and hurrying away again with shouts and cries; she had seen the morning sun rising and lighting up the ghastly thing for all men to see; she had heard, as in a dream, the bark of a dog, and had seen the animal scurrying through the undergrowth and coming upon it, and lifting a head and flinging a long howl to the startled skies; every horror that could possi- bly be suggested by it had been alive in her brain for hours. And now, in a moment, this man was here to assure her that the thing was hidden out of sight forever. Think of it! The first man who had lighted upon it had proved a friend and an ac- complice; had been ready to sacrifice everything—even his own safety—to cover up that crime for a moment. It might have happened that the man had dashed out into the world, crying aloud his suspicions, and so bringing disaster upon her; instead, his first object had been to assist her. “Why did you do this?” she asked, at last. “W’y did you kill ’im?” counter question. “Because he was in my way,” she broke out, unguardedly; and then add- ed quickly, ‘“‘“No—no, I don’t mean that. I mean that I—” “There ain’t no need to say any more,” he said, composedly. “You'd ‘ave been in a nice plight if any one else ‘ad found that thing down there to night; as it is, it’s all right. On’y understand me,” he added, fiercely, “if you don’t deal square with me, I'll dig ‘im up agen and let everybody know that I’m a honest man, an’ that I mean to see justice done. Understand that.” “Yes, I understand,” she said, “and I will deal squarely with you. I don’t know who you are, or why you should do this. I suppose you have some mo- tive.” “I’m a pore man, miss,” he began, but she checked him with a laugh. “I thought so; it’s likely to be a matter of money with a man like you. You shall have anything you ask—but you'll have to wait.” “Wait! What for?” he asked, inso- lently. “Because, although I live in a big house and in a big way, I haven't enough money to pay you what you're likely to demand,” she replied. That’s a part of the whole business; that I’ve been hunted on all sides by the man who's dead and by—by others. If they had only let me alone I could have given them all they asked; I haven't had a chance yet. But I swear to you,” she went on, eagerly, “I swear to you that if you’ll only wait— was his oh, only a little time—you shall have- anything you ask in reason. Things are coming my way; they started well only this afternoon—and then that brute turned up.” “It’s about that business I came to speak to you,” said Ormany, stolidly. “I was coming to see you about the other girl.” “The other mean?” “I suppose you know there’s another girl calls ’erself Grace Yarwood?” said the man. “Come ’ere on’l yesterday, as I understood it.” “Do you know her?” asked Joyce, quickly. “She’s bin stayin’ down at my place these many days past,” said Neal Or- many. “That’s w’at I come to see you about; that’s w’y I come to-night to let you know what game is afoot, an’ what they mean to do. They've got the ole man down there—er father.” Joyce started violently, and stood for a moment as still as a rock; then she turned to the man. “Her father! Wha’ in the world are you talking abouti “Mer father—I mean, my father is safe ix this house.” “That’s where you're wrong,” he retorted, calmly. “’E come into the camp down below there not an hour ago; ’e meets ’er ladyship—an’ they're all shakin’ ’ands with each other, an’ sayin’ that now they’ve got the real witness as can prove anything. That's w’y I’ve come up ’ere.” “Qld Yarwood down there with her,” muttered Joyce, to herself. ‘Why I jocked him in! What game is this? Gverything is going against me to- girl! What do you night.” She stood for a moment or two, muttering to herself, and tapping her foot impatiently on the ground. “Are you sure?” she asked, at last. “Didn’t I see ‘im with my own eyes?” asked Ormany, appealing to the trees and sky. “Didn’t I ’ear ’er call out to im? Didn’t I talk after- wards with the ole bushranger they call Flame? What else brought me up vere, I'd like to know?” “Will you wait here a minute or two while I run up to the house?” she asked, quickly. “Then I can see for myself.” “No cuttin’ off an’ leavin’ me with- out payin’,” he suggested. “What—and leave all this, when the fight is just beginning? Back down now, when I’ve everything to win?” she retorted, fiercely. “All right, miss; you’re a game un,” he said, with reluctant admiration. Tl wait.” J She raced back to the house at top speed; listened cautiously, as she had done before, and then ran up_ the stairs to the second floor. She took a key from her pocket and unlocked the door of the room in which she had left David Yarwood. The sickly odor of the opium still hung about the place, even though the window of the room was, wide open to the night. She called softly once and then went into the room. The window had prepared her for the emptiness of the place; she knew that the bird had flown. She paused for a moment there to think. She felt that the net was clos- ing in about her; the very darkness of the night without .suggested all sorts of people at work silently to plot her downfall. In a moment of pas- sion she had destroyed the life of the man who could be a witness against her, and in so doing had put herself in the power of another. Now, again, the one witness on whom she had re- lied, and who had apparently been so faithful to her—the man she had drag- ged out of the streets of London to serve her purpose—was lost to her also, and was in the camp of the enemy. The fight had not narrowed down, as she had anticipated; it had broadened out in a surprising way. Mechanically she walked across and closed the window, then came out again upon the stairs, closing the door after her. It was quite dark there, and she cried out in good earnest when, in stretching out a,hand to feel her way, she touched a solid body and felt her nervous fingers close upon cloth. “Who's there?” she cried, drawing back again. “Don’t be alarmed, Miss Yarwood,” said the voice of Mr. Stock. “I heard you moving about up here, and fear- ed that something was wrong. If I am not mistaken, I have heard you moving about before, this evening.” “Yes—I know,” she said, leaning against the wall, a little wearily and closing her eyes for a moment. “Some- thing—something has happened. My father—my father has gone!” “Tt rather anticipated something of the kind,” said Stock, dryly, as he struck a match and lit a gas bracket near to his hand. “Ah, that’s better,” he added, blinking a little at the light. “Rather awkward for you, Miss Yar- wood, your father going like this; a very important witness, eh?” “What do I want with witnesses,” she exclaimed, quickly. “Oh, we can never tell,” said Stock, extinguishing the match between his finger and thumb and looking thought- fully at it. “We may all need a wit- ness at a critical moment. This changes my plans a little. I shall start for London in the morning,” he added. She saw him go down the stairs slowly; after a moment or two she followed him; turned, when she came to the passage which led to, the little flight of stairs she had used be- fore; and ran out of the house again, to meet Neal Ormany. He had come, in the interval, nearer to the house; she almost ran against him at about the middle of the avenue. Such familiarity with the man had been bred in her by reason of the dis- asters of the night that she actually caught hold of him and held to him, in an appealing fashion, as she came upon him again. “Well, was I right?” he asked. “Yes, yes; he’s gone!” she exclaim- ed, hurriedly. “I see you understand; I see you know something of what is happening. And you tell me that you have come up here to-night to help me?” y “Ain’t I done it already?” he re- torted, savagely. “Ain’t I gone far to put my neck in a rope on your ac- count?” “Well, suppose you have; you ex- pect to get something from it, I sup- pose? Come, be plain with me; tell me what you want.” ‘ “That’s business; that’s the talk I like,” he replied. “If I’ve run my neck into a rope, w’y, what ’ave you done? It’s stand or fall together, if it comes to that, ain’t it?” She thought of all that that first mad plunge had done for her; she thought, with horror, of this last shameful partnership. But she stood alone against those who she believed were gradually but surely collecting evidence against her, to overwhelm her at some pre-arranged moment, ‘The words of Stock that night, about the necessity for witnesses, had been a revelation to her, and had shown her in a disquieting way that even he had begun to have his suspicions. The desperate courage of the woman, that had scarcely failed yet, made her de- termine now to set her teeth and go on, The mere thought of retreat was not in her; she would go on while ever there was the faintest prospect of final success. If they drove her to bay, they would find that she would fight to the last. “I see that we understand each oth- er,” she said, quietly. “This man you have found to-night thought he would pit his puny strength against mine; he threatened me—and you know what has happened to him. This girl, who declares that she is Grace Yar- wood, is backed by a few helpless creatures as ‘poor as herself; I have the power because I have the money,” “That’s just w’at I thought w’en I made up my mind to come to you,” said the man, with a laugh. “ ‘What's the good,’ I says to myself—‘what’s the good of them puttin’ theirselves against a lady that’s got the money? That’s what I said, an’ that’s what I stick to. ‘I’ll back the lady what's got the money,’ I says, an’ that’s w’ y I’ve come ’ere.” All this he delivered in the slow, ponderous fashion of a man not used to words, with an occasional awkward, dramatic movement of one’ arm. Joyce, for her part, had sunk down upon one of the stone benches be- tween the trees, and with an elbow propped on her knee and her chin in her hand, was thinking fiercely, with- out paying much attention to what he said. She removed the hand suddenly and clapped it on her knee and looked up at him. “Yes, yes; I know that,” she ex- claimed, impatiently; “but let’s get to business. While ever this girl re- mains here, with these people about her, plotting to help her, there is dan- ger for me. They are trying hard to prove that I am not Grace Yarwood— and that she is.” ” “An’ wich is the right’ one?” he asked. “It’s sufficient for your purpose to understand that I am,” she retorted, quickly. “Possession is nine points of the law, my friend, and subtlety is the tenth;.so that you may reckon I’m pretty secure. I shouldn’t be here if I hadn’t proved my claim; that’s enough for you. .But this girl is a continual menace to me. Is there any way by which she may be got away from here?” “Oh, yes; there’s lots of ways,” re- plied the man, with a laugh. “On’y it wants money; that’s the point. I put to-night’s work at a ’underd quid; I can take good care that the girl don’t trouble you no more for another ’un- derd. ’Ow’s that?” “IT want no violence; there has been enough of that,” she said, quickly. “You're a nice one to talk about no violence,” he retorted. “You ~ leave that business to me. Is it to be the two ’underd—or what is it to be?” “T have fifty pounds in the house,” she said, after a pause. “You shall have that—when I know what your plans are concerning the girl and what has been done. When you come back and tell me that I shall not be trou- bled about her again we will arrange about the other amount.” “Tain’t good enough for me,” he replied, obstinately. ‘“’Ow a mI to know that you won’t turn round at the last moment an’ Jeave me with noth- in’?” “Don’t you see, my friend, that I would be extremely glad to be able to do so?” she asked, a little wearily. “If any one makes a blunder in this world they have to pay for it; I am paying for mine now. You, for your part, know that in me you will have a pret- ty steady source of income, and I’ve no doubt you'll avail yourself of the opportunity it gives you as often as possible. I don’t complain; it’s an- other of the penalties. I can’t give you what I haven’t got; if you are un- successful it means that I am unsuc- cessful, too, and that we both get nothing. Take what you can secure now; on your success depends the fu- ture—heaven help me!—for both, of us!” “Right; I'll do it!” he exclaimed. “Only I’ve got to ’ave my own way over the businesss; it’s got to be un- derstood, once for all, that so long as the girl don’t trouble you no more there ain’t to be no questions asked. Is that clear?” “As you like,” she replied. “I sup- pose ‘it’s well in a matter of this kind to put some one else in jeopardy be- sides yourself; I share the fate of numbers of others who have gone be- fore me. Well, I’ve risked everything; I should be a fool to draw back now.” “And so say all of us!’ cried the man, boisterously. “I’ll go down now to my place—the gipsy camp below ’ere—an’ I'll see ‘ow the land lays; I'll be back presently to let you know what's ’appenin’, an’ to take that fifty quid on account. “Very well; I will be here, at this spot again, in an hour’s time,” she said, in a whisper. “You're sure, I suppose,” she added anxiously—‘sure that there is no chance of that—that body being found?” “Take my oath, no one will ever find it,” replied the man, without a moment’s hesitation. “Tell me—what is your name?” she asked. “You have not told me yet.” “Neal Ormany,” he replied. ”“Onest gipsy, livin’ in the camp below ’ere, on the edge of the woods. An’ not ashamed for anybody to know it.” They parted—Joyce to go back to the house and the man to make his way down to the camp. Half an hour later Neal Ormany strolled in , cas- ually enough, and found that some- thing had happened in his absence. He found Enoch Flame running wildly about from tent to caravan, eagerly questioning any one he might meet; [ne saw Grace stan standing wringing her hands helplessly. He moved nearer to the girl, having in mind his purpose in regard to her. © “W’y, you look fairly scared, miss,” he said, in a low voice. “What's wrong?” “My father—my dear father, whc came back to me only to-day—gone!’ she exclaimed. Flame ran up at that moment, while Neal Ormany was still staring blankly at the girl, and began eagerly to ques tion the gipsy. Ormany, with a puz zled face, looked from one to the oth er, and asked ‘questions in turn. “Let's understand this ‘ere?” he said, in a new tone of authority. “4 little time ago the gent I understanc to be your father came ’ere, walked ir with a friend, stayed with you. An I right, or am I wrong?” “Quite right,” said Flame, quickly “He was with his daughter, here, anc they stayed together talking for a lit tle while; she came away from the caravan for but a minute or two, an¢ when she went back he was gone We've searched the woods all round but there isn’t a sign of him; he’s van ished as completely as though he hac never been here at all.” The suspicious mind of the mar leapt at once to the fact that old Da vid Yarwood was wanted by severa people; that he had escaped that nigh from the one woman to fly to the oth er, and now was gone again. In ¢ vague way Neal Ormany understooc that the man was important as a wit ness—important to both sides. What ever plot was afoot to keep him ou of the way vitally affected the for tunes of Mr. Neal Ormany himself His first question to the girl showe¢ what his suspicions were. “And you mean to tell me you don’ know anything about it?” he askec roughly of Grace. “You mean to say that an old man like that could sliy away and no one know?” “It never occurred to me at firs! that anything was wrong,” replie¢c Grace. “I thought he had wanderec away somewhere among the tents; it was only afterwards—but a few min utes ago, in fact—that I grew alarmec and set out to find him.” “I see,” growled Ormany— a good start afore ’e was missed. wonder what’s the best thing to be done?” he added, thoughtfully. He strolled away—in reality, be cause he wanted to think about the business, and to make up his mind as to the best course to take. He begar to see that, for him, it might all be for the best so far as his new client was concerned. The father mysteriously gone—the girl spirited away; all oppo sition was at an end. The more he thought about it the more Mr. Nea! Ormany began to understand that most decidedly it was for the best Moreover, he saw in this an easy way of dealing with the girl. Within a little time he went up tc the door of the tent which was shared by his daughter Lydia and by Grace He called to his daughter and the gir) came out to him at once. “Where is she?” he asked, with a jerk of his head toward the tent. “In here, father, crying bitterly,” re plied Lydia, in a whisper. “Fetch ’er out ere,” he growled “An’ do you keep inside; my business is with ’er and with ’er on’y,” he add ed, with an oath. Grace came out after a moment or so, and dropped the flap of the tent be hind her. Inside, Lydia lay close against the opening, listening with all her ears. “You’ve no need to worry yourself. miss,” said Neal Ormany, in a low voice. “Don’t cry out—an’ don’t give out that I’ve said anything to you. | know where the old man is.” “My father?” she asked, eagerly. “Not so loud. Yes, I know w’ere ’€ is. ’E’s bin took away—part of the game that’s goin’ on ’ere—treachery if you like to call it so. W’en I said just now I didn’t know anythin’, an’ when I seemed to be so surprised, that was all fake—I kne wall the time. Only we’ve got to be careful; there’s “ "e's got ] ee a lot of ’em against us. Will you trust me?” “Yes, yes; willingly!” she whis- pered. “Tell me where they have taken him.” “To London,” he replied. ‘I daren't so much as breathe w’ere it is, but 1 can take you there. Will you come?” “Yes, but when?” “We'll start with daylight,” he re- plied. “At the end of the road ’ere leading towards the town there’s a gate, an’ a footpath goes from it across the fields toward the station. I'll be at that footpath by six in the mornin’; we can’t start earlier, an’ we should be doin’ ‘arm if we did. Will you be there?” | “T will—I will; how shall I ever be able to thank you?” she whispered. “By sayin’ nothin’ at all about it,” he replied. | He made his way swiftly back to that dim avenue outside the great house of Hawley Park. A _ shadow came from the trees to meet him, and Joyce Bland looked expectantly into his face. “Well?” she demanded. “Better than I could ’ave believed,” he replied, with a laugh. “The old man missing—done a bolt again, an’ can’t be found. The girl starts with me for London in the mornin’, an’ I'll take my oath she never comes back. Is it worth the fifty quid?” x “It is,” she replied, grimly, and slipped the rustling bank notes inte his eager fingers. (To Be Continued.) Severe Punishment. | Visitor—What do you do whe. Johnnie is naughty? Mamma—Put him to bed without any supper. Visitor—Well, what then? Papa—He cries, and she carries it up to him on a tray.—Chicago Jour- nal. ‘It Is the Outcome of Degenerate Art —-Craze Soon Died Out. A few years ago, when summer fur- nishing or simple furnishing at any season was to be accomplished, the first idea was to seek a Japanese shop. The current idea was that the Japan- ese could hardly make any ugly thing. We have had to relinquish that bliss- ful theory, the fact at the present time being that the Japanese make more cheap, tawdry, ignoble stuff than almost any other nation. Even the best of their art is degenerate in these days, and the worst is simply atro- cious. Instead of cheap Japanese china—the worst expression of their industry—artistic souls now buy the so-called peasant china of Germany and France. Some of it is extremely attractive, the clear color of the china and the ingenious nature of the decorations making them delightful. there are any number of small shops that carry these potteries. They are not to be had in sets, as a rule, al- though one pattern, English, without doubt, of large roses on a clear white ground, may be purchased in almost any quantity. The others must be picked up, plates, cups and saucers, bowls and pitcher, separately —New York Evening Post. JUST AN IMMIGRANT. Owns the Costliest Residence in New York. Who owns the costliest residence in all New York? A New Yorker? Ney- er! Just an immigrant from the West, a one-time peddler of clocks, Senator William A. Clark; “Billy” Clark, the copper king; “Major” Clark, of the Nez Perces campaign of 1878, whose income is over $1,500,000 a month. The mansard roof of the Clark resi- dence on the highlands of Fifth ave- nue is being sheathed in copper from the owner’s mines, The walls are con- structed of marble from his own quar- vies. In the basement are Russian and Turkish baths, etc., and on the sec- ond floor are the art gallery and din- ing room. The gallery will contain many of the celebrated paintings of ‘the world, and the house and its con- tents will represent an outlay of $8,- York Press. Manicurists More Common. The great increase in the number of New York’s manicures exhibits itself on every side. They are not only to be found nowadays in the large bar- ber shops, but they are tucked away also in every large office building. Then there is a small army of those who go to the houses of their custom- ers. The prices they receive nowa- days for their services are not so high as they once were, and in some places only 25 cents is charged, which is just one-fourth the regular fee of ten years ago. This is the cheapest rate de- manded anywhere in the city.—New York Sun. Reflections of a Bachelor. There’s a lot of money lost every day trying to find alittle. A girl can’t help thinking what a nice shirt waist a tennis net would make run through with ribbons. The first year a man is married he is looking for happiness; the second for content; the third he is satisfied to keep out of rows. It’s the girl who writes a graduation essay on the higher life who spends the rest of it trying to find a sure cure for colic in children—New York Press. Women can’t help wondering why men fall in love with them. Used Pe-ru-na For Dyspepsia With Great Benefit. HON. M. C. BUTLER, Ex-United States Senator From South Carolina. X-U. S. Senator M. C. Butler from South Carolina, was Senator from that state fortwo terms. Ina recent letter from Washington, D. C., he says: “Il can recommend Peruna for dys- pepsia and stomach trouble. I have been using your medicine for a short period and I feel very much relieved. It is indeed a wonderful medicine be- sides a good tonic.’’—M. C. Butler. Peruna is not simply a remedy for dyspepsia. Peruna is a catarrh remedy. Peruna cures dyspepsia because it is 000,000. So much for copper.—New | Bonerally. dependertss ayonscpearnny ct the stomach. If you donot derive prompt and satis- factory results from the use of Peruna, write at once to Dr. Hartman, giving a full statement of your case and he will be pleased to give you his valuable ad- vice gratis. Address Dr. Hartman, President of The Hartman Sanitarium, Columbus, Q. Doubtful Compliment. “Oh, Mr. De Borem, I’m so glad to see you,” exclaimed the hostess. “Are you, really?” said the delight- ed guest? “Indeed I am,” she replied. “If you had failed to show up there would have been thirteen at the dinner ta- ble.’—Cincinnati Enquirer. This Will Interest Mothers. Mother Gray’s Sweet Powders for Chit dren, used by Mother Gray, a nurse in Children’s Home, New York, Cure Fevers ishness, Bad Stomach, Teething Disorders, move and regulate the bowels and destroy Worms. Sold by all Druggists, 25c. Sample FREE. Address A. S. Olmsted. LeRoy, in Manchuria. American War Correspondent —I wish I were back in New York. English War Correspondent—Why? American War Correspondent—I’d be able to learn something about what they’re doing here.—Puck. The man who neglects the primary cannot make up for it in the prayer meeting. ANegetable Preparation for As- similating the Food andRegula- ling the Stomachs and Bowels of Promotes Digestion Cheerful- |i ness andRest-Contains neither | ium,Morphine nor Mineral. OT NARCOTIC. Aperfect Remedy For Consti hep Sour Stomach, Diarrheea Worms Convulsions Feverish- ness and LOSS OF SLEEP. Fac Simile Signature of ; eA NEW YORK. At6 months old 3) Doses —35CrNIS CASTORIA For Infants and Children. The Kind You Have Always Bought Use For Over Thirty Years CASTORIA N. W. N. U. —NO. 33— 1904. BEGGS’ BLOOD PURIFIER CURES catarrh of the stomach.