The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, September 28, 1902, Page 9

i 2 i ¥ E to—d:w fiction. Get The Oall of last Lmd that of to-day and you h.v- complets story of “The Mys- tery Box"—one of the most intere ing books of the day. By this method of publiostion there is no waiting from week to week and month to month for chapters of a story, so ex- ssperating for those who try to follow the serial story as it is generally printed in newspapers or magazines. This new departure in journalism taken by The Call works a revolution in the matter of giving the public the best literature at a cost hardly worth mentioning. By this method, for ten or fifteen ocents at the most, you have the epportunity of reading the best fiction that the book world of to-day bas to effer. Notice some of the books that are to follow: First there will be published, in two issues of The Sun- day Oull, & splendid story of political and social life of to-day by C. K. Lush ealled “The Autocrsts.” Buy it at the book stores and it will cost you $1.50—read it in The Oall and it will cost you but ten osuts. After this will appear fn rapid sucoession: “Alice of 0ld Vincennes,” Maurice Thompson's greatest work; “When Knighthood Was in Flower,” the strongest story Charles M=ajors ever wrote; “The ZLeopard’s Bpots,” by Thomas Dixon Jr., & book on the race problem that has been the sensation of the season; “The Gentleman From Indians,” by Booth Tarkington, the prettiest love story ever written, etc., etc. Remem- ber, the first half of “The Autocrats” will appear in next Sunday’s Call. Press Agency. ONTINUED. hink that this re: Berkeley have made his eyes for eigh mes he jumped up 3 go et once to Alberia he sat do telling & fool, and there was believe that Berkeley at 1 certainly be soon enough, and himself there hours before the appointment would only fan Mrs. Daw- ions, already smoldering, into however, he could mo longer re- nself, and soon after he started out. It was only half-past when the old woman let himg Into her mean little house d ‘fime in their brief and strange acquaintance. “Well, you are & gentleman to take e by the forelock!” she exclaimed. Nothing /heard or seen of Mr. Berkeley yet, and I don't believe there will be. what's more; till the last minute. He ain't such & one for being prompt as you, " Carrismoyis was relieved to hear this and trusted that he might believe the statement. Bhe hsf & letter in her hand when she came to the door, and as ghe conducted ber visitor once more to Mr. Berkeley's reom she gathered up pen and blotter and ink from the table, which had been lit- tered with writing materials. “I'm sure Mr. Berkeley wouldn't object to my making use of his foom to do a bit of writic' in when he's away,” Mrs Dewson said, spologetically. “But per- baps you might just as well not men- tion it, sir, if you don’t mind. I meant to ‘ave got everything cleared away before you come, but you're that early”’—and she chuckied & little uncomfortably—“you eaught me in the midst.” “I promise not to mention it, certainly,” Carrismoyle assured her, conciliatingly. “Were you answering your daughter's letter?” He allowed himself to glance at the sheet of paper she held in her hand ch was covered with writing. He was ¢ that it could not be Mrs. Dawson's. “Yes, sir,” the old woman responded But I can't send till I hear again the new address in France. She’'s going to let me know as soon as they're settled, ut she said T musn’'t worry if it wasn't ristmas. Stll, T thought as f time on my hands just now, owing quite what would hap- Berkeley come back, I begin to thank her for the present she sent. I'm a slow the s her handwriting I should say so with your daughter,” re- smoyle, venturing to nod er still grasped in the Dawson did not seem displeased by to be intended as a com- daughter, who was the earth she had ever genuine- e took her s clever with her pen,” the old “This letter ain't writ some I've 'ad from her. 80 free on the paper, bad a cramp in her 1 had been too cold to rtable compared to we ’ave had cold e new missus didn’t we mf fire. s hardly listening Dawson's first a new idea, and he would follow it up t time was not now. to detain her with fur- ich could ™: asked later, y affajr had been set- ary, he was anxious out of the house with s need be. ly for Carrismoyle, the wishes } her Fortuna of his strange hostess marched with his own. Now that he was in the house, and in her loager's sitting-room—there being no other nient place to put him—the cowardly old woman was anxious to be out of the way and avold a possible storm.. If it were true, as this stranger asserted, that when explanations had been duly made Mr. Berkeley would not be in- clined to quarrel even with the stratagem which bad *brought him back to town, then there was nothing to dread in the future; while, in any event, she was well repaid forgall she might lose in. forfeiting her lodger. But e her curlosity, usual- 1y keen, was not vivid enough to keep her in the house that she might behold that first “meet betwen the two men. She lost no time, theréfore, fif putting away her writing materials and making herself ready for the visit she planned to pay a friend Jn Peckham. it was 4 o'clock when Mrs. Dawson went out, and Carrismoyle had still an hour to wait before. he could expect to ste Berkeley if the man kept to the time of the appointment. The one window of the little. sitting- room looked -uncompromisingly on the sor- did street, and when the mistress of the house departed ' Carrismeyle . thrust - his pocket-knife so tightly between the two sashes that the window could not easily be raised and pulied down the dingy yel- low and brown blind ~ that Berkeley should have no chance of seeing that his room had an accupant until the moment when he should open the door. Daylight still lingered grayly when he took this precaution, but in half an hour it was night in Alberta street. The details of the mean furniture and the still meaner ornaments were blotted out with shadow. Still Carrismoyle could not avail himself of the cheap parafine Jamp which stood in the center of a moth- eaten worsted mat on the tablé. Berkeley would be surprised, perhaps have his sus- picicns arouse! if he found his room lighted up in-his absence. At any moment he might arrive now, Carrizsmoyle’s pulses ticked like a watch as he sat in a chair behind the reom door (which would hide him in opening) listening to every sound. He could not AND POC.K.ETE.D THE. MON! A\NS OEY R TELEGREBAM . note the passage of time as it went slow- ly on, minute by minute, as the beads of a rosary move in the fingers of a praying monk. But at last a small metal clock on the mantel struck 5. Carrismoyle’s heart jumped in response. Now, the next few minutes must surely piove whether he had been a fool or wise. Me¢n were beginning to come home to Alberta street from their work. Outside the window he could hear their voices, whistling, laughing or grumbling, while wcmen or children answered. There were mauny footsteps passing to and,fro. House dcors slammed shut, voices died away. But this house was still silent. The man whe sat waiting in the darkness felt a weight of dread fall upon him lest he had been cheated, lest Mrs. Dawson and Berkeley had all along acted in collusion and Berkeley would never come. He was asking himself what he Had better do in case half past 5 came and still there were no signs of the returning lodger, when his blood leaped at the sound of a quick, im- patient rapping on the house door. He haéd no means of informing himself whetber the hand that knocked was Berkeley's or another’s—still, the sound was weicome, for it meant hope, and he waited, his heart beating thickly. His impulse was to rush out to the door, but he knew that to do so might lose him all he had gained, for Berkeley—if he were there—would doubtless turn and run at sight of a strange man springing like a Jack-in-the-box from the door of his lodgings, and, as he presumably knew the neighborhood, it was far from sure that a stranger would succeed In catching him, Luckily, the watcher’s patience was not tried for long. When the rapping was not instantly answered, a key was ap- yplied to the lock and Carrismoyle heard the sharp sound with thanksgiving. Who % but Mrs. Dawson and Mrs. Dawson's lodger was likely to possess a latch key? The door opened; there was a footfall on the bare floor of the little passage, then the door shut. “Hallo, Mrs. Dawson!” exclaimed a voice, which sounded curiously different in Carrismoyle’s ears from any osher that he had ever heard. This was not because the voice was different in quality, but—if the silent listener had analyzed his feel- ing—because it might be that of the man who had villainously made himself mas- ter of Ceclly Grant's fate. He was sur- yrised, despite Mrs. Dawson's eulogiums of her lodger, to find that the mysterious Mr. Berkeley's tones were unmistakably those of a gentleman. Silence fell heavily again as the unseen man in the passage paused for a reply. Wkhen none came he repeated his call more loudly than before, and then mut- tered something impatiently in too low a tone for Carrismoyle to catch the words. He heard, however, the rasping noise of a match being scratched on the wall, and he thought that he knew what would hap- pen next. Nor was he wrong in his sur- mise, for & second or two later the handle of the door was selzed from the other side with a smart rattle and the door pushed open. So foreibly was it thrown back that it struck against the chair in which Carris- moyle had been sitting. But he had risen at the sound of the latch-key a few mo- ments before, and now stood still, a hand upon the back of the rickety chair which had been struck, preventing it from fall- ing. The fat, yellow flame of the wax match traveled slowly to the table, followed by a black form ghostly indistinct in the darkness, so faintly broken by the small, flickering light. It burnt down before the new-comer succeeded in removing the globe and chimney from the lamp, and with a mut- tered oath as the flame burnt his fingers, he flung the match on the floor, where it lay, a crimson spark. Another match was produced, and this time the lamp was lighted. As the wick ignited the room was uncertainly illumined. Carrismoyle, standing in shade, looked eagerly out, and found that he was gazing at the back of a tall, broad-shouldered, but slightly stooping figure, wearing “a hard, round bat, and one of those long, tight-fitting overcoats largely affected by the racing fraternity. Berkeley was no puny wretch to be lightly cowed by the superior strength of his hidden enemy, when the cruclal moment should come and the two be pit- ted one against another. He was at least as tall as Carrismoyle “himself, with a well-proportioned form which might easfly mean muscular agility. The man in the shadow was glad of this as he stood wait- ing. And he did not mean to wait much longer now. The lamp being lighted and fitted with chimney and globe once more, Berkeley applied himself—still with his back unsus- piciously turned toward Carrismoyle corner in a way that dumbly established Mrs. Dawson’s integrity—to searching among the few old papers on the table, as if he expected to find something. He then walked over to the mantelplece. “H'm! Old hag might have had the de- cency to leave a note if she was going out,” he mumbled. “Silly old ape, if she hasn’t stuck that purse up there instead of leaving it for the fire! Fool!” The instant that Berkeley began to move toward the mantelpiece Carrismoyle stepped noiselessly from his corner behind the door, and the almost simuitaneous sounds of slamming it shut and turning the key in the lock broke into the midst of the muttered soliloquy. Quick as a flash the man at the mantel wheeled round. Carrismoyle stood with his back to the door, quietly engaged in slipping the key which he had snatched from fts place into his pocket. The two stood eying each other like a couple of fencers, and Carrismoyle saw with a mingling thrill ot repulsion and triumph that Mrs. Dawson’'s lodger ex- actly answered the description given by Miss Morley of the obnoxious person who had stared at Cissy Grant on Bond street. “Upon my word,” remarked Berkeley, “but you are a cool hand! I should like to know whether. I've to deal with a bur- glar, or madman, or whether we're mere- ly playing ‘Box and Cox,” and our friend Mrs. Dawson has let you this roont in my absence?” “You must guess again,” retorted Car- rismoyle, & dangerous light in his biue eyes. ““What do you want with me? And what do you mean by your impudence?’ went on Berkeley, his sneering tone changing suddenly to a menacing roughness, *“I mean by my impudence to have a private talk with you,” replied Carris- moyle, “and what I want is that you should tell me, without any beating round the bush—which won't be good for you— what you have dome with Miss Cecily Grant.” The deep-set eyes narrowed In the dark face, with its high cheekbones and the dissipated hollows underneath. “So you are a madman, ‘after all,” Berkeley said slowly. “I never heard of the !ady whose name you mention. Now, wijl you kindly return the key to my door and leave my room?” “No,” exclaimed Carrismoyle, “I will do neither until I've had the truth, and the whole truth out of you. I mean to bave it, either peaceably or by force, ‘whichever you choose.” “It strikes me you want to get yourself arrested, young sir,” remarl{ed Berkeley, returning again to sarcasm. ‘“You secrete yourself in a =[rdng9r; room, you blus- ter and threaten —— “Nothing that I'm not ready to per- form. I already know too much for your safety, Mr. Berkeley. I fancy it won't be for your good to call the police, though you're free to do it the minute I've fin- ished with you. so far as I am concerned. Meanwhile, you may as well listen to me. I'm aware that you, aided and abetted by the daughter of the woman of this house, have succeeded in kidnaping Miss Grant. I am aware, also, that the villainous mes- sage sent to frighten that lady's father was written in this room. I have seen and identified her purse on your mantel. I know that you sent a certain box to Sir Redways Grant, no doubt in the hove that its contents would send him to his grave with horror. I have seen the body which was buried in No Man's Cave on the Devonshire coast, and then disin- terred and flung into the sea. -Instead of being identified as the body of Miss Grant, as you intended, it has been satisfacto- rily proved not to be hers. All this is known. The only thing that remains is to learn where you have put her, and that 1 intend you shall tell me before 1 Jeave this room. I'm not a patient mag, and I don’t intend to stop here long.” The other gave utterance to a barsh laugh, but it hid a growing nervousness. “I shall certainly make no attempt fo de- tain you,” he sneered. His black eye. turned toward the window, then came quickly back to Carrismoyle’s face. “Orice for all, I tell you again,”” he went on, "I don’t know what you are'driving at. It seems to me that you are talking gibber- ish, with your Sir Redways and . your Miss Grants and your caves. - Youys. either mad or you mistake me for some one else. Anyhow, I'm not the man you think.” “Probably not. But you happen to be the man I want. And, what's more, you happen to be the man I've got.” Berkeley had been nervously unbutton- ing his overcoat during his last’ speech, and now with a swift, sudden movement he flashed out from a pocket one of those ugly weapons known across the sed as a bowie-knife. “Oh, you've got me, have you?” he echoed. “Two can play at mos¥ games, my friend. I'm a peaceable fellow and 1 don't like rows, especially with luna- tics, but the quarrel is forced upch me. Get out of my room and out of this house without any more crazy -nonsense or I'll have to turn doctor for the good of your head and bleed you.” “Yes, two can play at most -games,” repeated Carrismoyle. He whipped out a revélver, bought and loaded that morning, and took;afm as Berkeley "advanced a step toward him. Flinching and paling slightly, the man suddenly checked himself. “Drop_your knife," an’ismq\le sald, quietly. Berkeley hardly winced, and he am not drop the knife. But he spoke, and his voice was not quite steady. “You pretend to think that I have in-, formation that you wantto get,” he sald. “If you kill me, wéuldn't it be like killing 2 goose that lays golden eggs?” “One golden egg was taken from the body of ‘the goose after death,” returned his enemy. The retort was a mere chsnca shot, but for some reason the shot fold, and Car- rismoyle sprang to the conclusion that Berkeley (or this man who called himself Berkeley) carrigd compromising papers about his person. He dropped the knife, which struck the floor noisily. “Now are you contented, madman?’ he demanded. 3 b “I shall. .be contented when I know where totfind Miss Grant, not before. ‘Where is she? Be careful. ‘Don’t attempt evasions or arguments; I wen't stand either. . I'm a desperate man, and I warn you I'll stick at nothing. I give you while 1 count ten to begin. If you don’t begin— and to the point—on the tenth count I shall shoot. I see what’s’' In your mind. But it's no use shouting for help. Befors a yell could get any further than your lips you'd have a hole in your lungs. Now! One—two—three—" /' “Coward—murderer! . _ *1 wouldn't bother calling name: —five—six—" “If you put away your revolver, I'l speak out the little I know, entirely an outsider—"" “Seven—eight—nine—"" “Let me sit down—I can’t stand much more of this—I'm not as young Yon *“Ten—' = “Great heavens, I'm going to speak! 1 do know something of what you want to find out. But you'll have to wait a min- ute, if you expect me to go on. I must sit down.” He dropped into a chair by the table wherg a couple of hourfl ago Mrs. Dawson had Sat writing. of brandy. My heart's weak. I'm played out. The liquor’'s in my pocket.” Carrismovle had offered no opposition so far. He even let Berkeley’s hand go to his breast pocket, for he knew that, as the man’s heart was covered by his re- volver, béfore any concealed weapon could be drawn and aimed he would have time to fire. But it was nothing more nor less than a brandy flask that was pro- duced, Unscrewing the metal top Berke- ley put his mouth eagerly to his lips. His hand shook. He spilt some brandy. which trickled over his tie and soiled his shirt front. ~Carrismoyle guessed that h feigned at least as much nervousness as Four Jto he felt, and that he was desperately try- ing to gain time. “Take your drink and have done '1"! it,” the younger man said, sternly. *“ walt no longer.” He took half a step nearer the occupant of the chair, who gave a great start, as if In fear of what was to happen next. The flask fell from his hand, and, as if mechanically, he stooped down to retrieve it. For an instant’s space Carrismoyle was off his guard; buf it was an instant too Ieng for him, and the trick which Berke- ley had all along been planning and now had carried out achieved success. Quick as lightning ‘he sprang at his en- emy, leaping up under the arm hand which held the revolver, so suddenly and with such force as to loosen Carrismoyle's grip. At the same time, with a peculiar twist, he wound his leg round Carris- moyle's ankle, causing him to stagger en, as the hand wi.s the revolver was thrown up, a tigerish blow -sent the wea~ pon flying. CHAPTER x. A GAME PLAYED BY TWO In nine cases out of ten a revolver at full cock would have gone off as it fell and struck the floor. But this was the exceptional tenth case. The weapon con- trived to fall without striking the trigger. With no explosion and only the muffled sound of metal coming In sudden contact with carpet-covered woed it disappeared in a dark corner, finding lodgment under a dilapidated chest of drawers. It was lost to both men equally, for the moment at least, like the dropped knife, and in ths struggle wherein they clenched, grappling together for supremacy, strength and skill and endurance, alone would decide the end. The revolver was out of sight: but the lamplight touched the steel of the bowie- knife and sent up an alluring flash sluw Iy they wrestled together, each one striving to free himself from the grasp the other—Carrismoyle managed to draw Berkeley nearer and nearer to the thing that glittered on the fl He had righted himself after stagger- ing back for that single instant, though too late to defeat his enemy’s principal ob- ject, which had been to even matters be- tween them by depriving him of his weapon. It was useless at present for either one to think of the revolver, since there was no ‘hope of making a sudden dart to trieve it from under the chest of drawers. But each man determined that he would be the one to obtain the knif: Carrismoyle would have had, circumstances, many advantages over his cpponent. He was years younger; he was an athlete who did not neglect to keep up with athletic sports; he had never pois- oned ‘his Blogd,.as the other had. by over- iridulgy in. alcohol. But/it was not many months.since he had returned in- valided from South.Africa. Hé had hardly vet reégained his full strength. perhaps: and he was additionally handicapved by the fact that he was exhaysted from lack in ordinary of food and sleep. After sll, if he had listened to Robert Lester's advice, he might have been wiser, and though it was too late to profit'by thinking of this, he did thiffk of It as he was gradually forced to acknowledge himself not nearly as much the enemy's superior in physical stamina as he had belleved. There was something catlike in the fierce, desperate way that the elder man clung to him. and twisted round, him, net according to any rules of wrestling which obtain in so-called civilized countries, but with the stealthy K untutored. ferocity of some half-savage son of the east. So, silently, inch by inch, they moved toward the knife, which turned the keen point of its blade toward them. The eyes of each held those of the ather ia as close an embrace as that of their.arms on one another's body. Yet, somehow, they had seen the knife. They knew where it lay, even to that part cf the figure in the oid and faded carpet which it covered. At last they were close upon it. Carris- moyle could have pushed it further away with his foot, thus depriving Berkeley of the chance he wanted, if he had not want- ed the same chance himself and been bent upon snatching it if possible. If Berke- ley got the knife, now that his blood was up, he-would kill Carrismoyle if he could, and trust to luck or his own cleverness— which was undisputed—to hide the crime as perhaps he had succeeded in hiding others. If, on the contrary, Carrismoyle was the fortunate one, Berkeley had much to hope for. As he had said, he was the goose with ithe golden eggs, and, despite the other’s threat,it would hardly be worth while to kill him for the sake of one, when by ‘sparing his life more might be obtathed. Carrismoyle knew that he had every- thing to gain and everything to lose in this game that was being played so even- ly. And he fought for the girl he loved more than for himself. Her beauty seemed to rise before him and shut out that dark face, congested now with rage, so hatefully near his own. Still for her, ke put out all the strength that was in him, with a sudden effort to lift the other man and throw him. For a moment they: struggled and strained in each other's grasp, then Berk- &ley’s relaxed, as if.at the turn of his for- tune’s tide. It was-in Carrismoyle’s mind fling the catlike, clinging body off, and, while, he was helpless, se¢ize fthe knife. Then he could make his own terms again. But, even as Berkeley fell, He caught the younger man round both legs and tripped him up. also. They came crashing down together, Berkeley under- neati. This was the one time out of a thousand, However, when the advantage was with the . under man, for as Berke- ley's back touched the floor, so did ‘his hand touch the knife. But it was the blade, not the handle he grasped. The fraction of a second passed before he could use the advantage he had gained, and in that fraction Carrismoyls was up. He saw then—what he had. not seel before—that Berke'sy had the knife, and quick as lightning he seized a chair, swinging it into the air an¢ down on the lifted right arm of the man who wat leaping at him with the bowle-knifa The blow struck Berkeley to his kfeszs and the weapon flew out of his hand far away: but instead of springing aftey it, Carrismoyle Used the time which the enemy must take to recover—though it were but long enough to count. three— for another purpose. With two great strides he had reached the chest of draw- ers in the corner, and just as Berkeley had retrieved his knife and was stag- gering to his feet, Carrismoyle faced him ; With the recovered revolver. ) He was panting and near to exhaus- tion, vet he laughed out in the joyous excitement of his triumph. “Now,” he said, breathing quickly, “we’'ll begin our conversation again—where we left off. And, by the way, I'll trouble you to lay your knife on the table.” Berkeley obeyed, glaring at the ‘man who had beaten him at his own game, with fierce, bloodshot eyes, like those of a chained bulldog that boys have baited. “I give In,” he said, hoarsely, as he