The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, February 15, 1903, Page 3

THE SUNDAY CAkl’,. ) s_theatrical personality upon a girl e Miss Hampton—she is the cousin of managing editor, Mr. Jack Chiiders, i you piease—I'll rodst you until you are laughing stock of the town. 1'll rid- pull you to pieces, show you t you, until you wiil wish that never been born. I can do it, u know. 1'm not malicious—in print— but T shall take particular delight 1 do- ing something in that direction for your ‘ especial ben © it—if you like our ma but leave Miss jlon out iie hieard the words as clearly now, as she had reuttered them, and as her standing there like a Nemesis . he began to believe thut this & 4 fateful one. This devilish girl un no good. A second later, and hie maiignancy of his look was replaced by a craven fear, a poltroonly m ng that something ruinous—he did not guite know whai—was about to hapy He lovked at Ivy, cool as a summer morning the white tints of her wuesh gleaming through bLer laces and neediework Weil am?’ he said at at detiance. And ie, impressed feverishly by immediate ion, wi nd ¢ ent scovered coming al yment—all wi red to 1 ective might b s very . and e ‘cr you, her words, 1 warned'y them like g the d in- 1bly or tumb- le voice believe—r ar. and mere r the crimsor 1 v the b of ‘a - her as a e up ed to me? usly, as the possibilities efore him. "hat do. It was a to say impertine: but ¢ t bring himself to do 0. He 5 of Tvy Hampton. Her progress pr 1 princiy been so at she had swept past him. The that the ction she had mp felt ade b at i Miss FHamnton had mno 1f-reproac no distrust ssment. She had left her lover background, and was imperiously rent to his vague scruples anonymous, letter.” said _Miss on, icily, wfth her cyes on Sallle, work of a coward, who for some other—and generally the other i E thought it > as 1 know of the 1t sort y recovered her £ primed for the was still amazed two, even thouy there were 1 To be detect > who wielded a i e of a powerfgl per infamous en: wever, came ble to brazen it 1 herself—amid ugh which she untered convention After t reared amidst well-born, and with a Yet not an eyelash quiv- rere types thr en she ether ack of the depravity but she swer case. and made it It was very sim- not obliged to draw upon er to any very formi x that Mrs. Stuyv ad bec familiar with the lates jelity on the part of her husband ( emphasized viciously the word atest”; Miss Hampton winced at it; Mr. Stuyy it glowered) had been told o Mr. Green by an ex-reporter. The ex- rier was unable o state the namie of the woman in the case—the latest woman (again Sallie maley accen- the word). Mrs nt had Private Detective Sylvester and Miss Sydenham had been the editor to work up And Sallle, her suspicions hav- been aroused at the receotion in wspaper Row, had scented the truth. the news of Miss Hampton's sent to Jack Childers had been In order to spare him a cruel vert a scandal, she had under- arn Mr. Stuyvesant. She was but there was no nd a tection was, perhaps, uestion of minutes As he listened to her, Arthur Stuyve- sant again grew limp with fear. His shook. the subtleties of the ca: i him. He whs even inclined to re- e 2as a sort of interested be - ress. She was doing a noble deed for his sake. He had entirely misjudged her. And a wave of irr ssible coxcombry swept through is mind. Perhaps, after she t utterly indifferent to his personality. She might be—and prob- ably was—interested in him. It w a comforting thought, and in this moment of quaking apprehension it possessed more than mere soothing qualities ~It was good of you, Miss Sydenham,” he sald. ~1 regret that I did not get the lt%mx 1o be Tost As you say, there Is no time . ses not appeal to m. 1 _ask, Miss Sydenham, why the affairs of M ‘hilders are so vital to you?"’ Then, with an insolence that was almost sublime, she added: “Is it possible that dally intercourse in a newspaper office has given you a more than professional interest in my cousin? If so, I will with- draw. As you may imagine, I can do so without any heartache. 1 am not in love with your m?anng editor.” Sallie felt € dead weight at her heart. She would have liked o do physical vio- lence to this girl, who was 0 astonish- ingly devold of even the feminine in- stinets of modesty and shame. “My sentiments toward Mr. Childers need mot concern you,” she said. “I am quité aware that you would not under- stand thefa. And piease try to believe that I am actuated by no desire to save ou personally from the results of vour— a)l we say—impropriety? Mud is your nation, and to mud you wiil un- doubtedly go. It is apparently your nat- ural preference. But Mr. Stpyvesant, for his own sake, will assuredly save the sit- uation.” There was a trace of “Kilkenny cat” in this * * * jt sounded rather suspicious- Jy ke Billingsgate * * * but Sallie could not restrain herseif. She was cruel- ly affronted by Mi: Hampton's oblique cutlook. Mr. Stuyvesant for a mement felt ‘that he was in duty bound to resent this language, but * ® ® there was no time for recrimination. Miss Hampton herself glanced toward her lover for the champlonship of her cause, a vindictive gleam in her gray. pool-like eyes. that had somehow lost their opal fires. Her impulse was to turn Miss Sydenham out, @nd to calmly await developments—the coming of which were powerless to af- fright her. The idea of being labeled in Gual iniguity with Arthur Stuyvesant ciused her no dismay. It would be a nine-days’ sensation, and she felt amply strong enough to live through it. Noth- ing¥ever lasied more than nine days. A big fire or a murder would oust her “af- . May falr’ from the public mind; and there were always big fires and murders. “In the meantime, Ivy,” he sald, “you must go, and you must not return here. We can discuss matters later. You must g0 now—this very moment. Had it not been for sheer, biind luck—that kept me away from these rooms owing to my theatrical engagements—we should have been discovered long before this. Never mind Miss Sydenham’s motives, Ivy. Put on your things and * * * go. Go at 1 will pack up a few belongings, ay my rent and end it all. Go, Ivy, lease * * * please go, for my sake. She stood there like a statue, watching gusty fear and listening to his hur~ words. Then she siowly moved to Jve room and began to obey him. “Very well,” she said. “For your sake I will go. We can find another place. “Hurry, Mr. Stuyvesant,” _said Sallie, feverishiy, for the time had passed quick- ly and the: peril became momentarily more acute. 1 will help you to pack. Quiy—only—get—this—this woman out.” ivy heard Her words, and for a mo- ment a fear assailed her. She remembered seeing Sallie with her lover of\ the night f Owldom's reception, and the strange ation that it had given her\ Suppose this was all a ruse on the bart of a who did not look respectable, and therefore, could not be respectable, her tentacles upon Arthur? Yet absurd. She knew full well that Svdenham could | not be Arthur's She was about to hint at her fear, au make sarcastic allusions to the recklessness of leaving them together even for a few minutes; but she decided that even a hint would be too monstrous. She looked at the rowdily dressed girl, with scarcely a vestige of good looks left, she felt quite safe. So she “You will hurry, Arthur, soon as you can? understood. She could not repress a feeble shot at them both, hough it was wanting in dignity, and emed to pace her on their repulsive Ve ‘He will be intact, Mrs. Compton,”™ id, accenting the alias. *You need afraid. 1f I went in for actors, I se those who have no ties. 1 slieve in going thirds with a wife child. T wapt all or nothing. You not as greedy, I perceive. Go ahead, Compton. I will help Mr. Compton to t oui as quickly as he can. Hurry up. little Compton, and don’t mind me.” it did her good to utter these swiftly rigiculous words, beneath which she could see that he writhed. Miss Hamp- ton was unmoved. She was calmly don- ning her every-day clothes. She remov- ed the peignoir and stood before them bare-necked and bare-armed, without the slightest appreciation of the gross indeli- cacy of the proceeding. Sallie, who prided herself upon all sorts and conditions of Bohemianism and who loved to say, and often said: “I'm no prude,” experienced girl who, it M vl And be should vt a thick discomfort as she ‘watched Miss Hampton buttoning her dress, fastening and omitting no detalls. Mr., Stuyvesact, in the meantime, was un- rthing trunks, boxes, dress-suit cases, 1d_hastily arranging for the finality. Good-By,” said Ivy, draping the dark her face. “After all, I was due this time. Mamma is dining home out— back earlier. at as usual—but she promised to be So, even if Miss Sydenham had not burst upon us like a ray of sa vation, longer. hear from me {o-MOTTOW. idle. H I could not have stayed much Good-by, Arthur. Kiss me. You'll 1 shall not be Adieu.” would gladly have been spared the il se of kissing her before Sallle Sy enham. He flushed, and trled to avold it. But Miss Hampton was perfectly indiffer- ent 10 the ineffectiveness of public em- Had there been a seething mob in m she would not have been balked her kiss. Her outlook was warpgd; by injudicious cynicism and argument of fallacy, had helped to warp it, he must pay the penalty now. Ie could not conceal his chagrin, as he kissed her. It was so evident that Sallfe, in th of this disgraceful night, w ged to smile. Never had kiss been more unlover-like. It ;was a sort of sweet revenge $ her. as glad that Ivy made a fool of h she re- jolced to see that he hated being made @ fool of. And what a fool he looked! She laughed aloud—carefully, deliberately, savoring the luxury of pardonable spite. iss Hampton glanced at the array of cases, baskets, and * .* * hated areful how you pack the orna- ments, said, in soft tones. “I shall be furious if you break those Cupids, Ar- thu They are the only decent things we have in this hole. Jack gave them to me for my birthday. He asked me the other day where they were. Of course, 1 couldn't tell him, but I said that they were quite safe. So do be care- ful. Jack would be so angry if anything happened to them = She glanced with amused eyes at Miss Sydenham and enjoved the idea of shock- her. And how marvelous it was Miss "Sydenham could be shocked! found it almost impossible to be- lieve that this girl of tenderloin aspect was, after all, convention-proof. It eemed too ludiercus. “Les apparences =ont trompeuses,” a line of her early -nch days, occurred to her. They were indeed. 1f this newspaper woman were so_intensely rnflgeclable, why was she such a sight? hy did she write such boldly suggestive articles? Miss Hampton. who "had glways read Mis ydenham’'s work—in spite of Mrs. Hamp- * ton—had surely detected epigrams, witty remar! novel view-points, all called forth by filicit plays. and situations fifty times worse than the simple reality of a zirl. and a clandestine laver. She left them, and lhey‘:i'd her slow- Iy descending the stairs. returned a moment later, with prov g insistence merely to say that her slippers were un- der the bed and not forget them. “hen she was gone in reality, and they heard the outside door close. Left alone with Arthur Stuvvesant, Sal, lie felt a sensation of rellef that was sim- @'y luxurious. The-danger had been ef- Tectively averted _Ivy had been ousted, before Detective Sylvester Jackson had shown up. The situation was saved; the rendezvous was broken up; nothing could happen. The removal 'of the terrific strain to which she had been subjected, was so grateful that the tears rushed to her eyes and her hands trémbled. She felg insanely thankful to Arthiir Stuyve- sant for promptness of action, even though she completely realized that he acted neither for her sake, nor for that of Mr. Childers, nor for the safety of Ivy Hampton, but solely, exclusively, unremittingly for his own. The most unvielding _ selfishness—egotism, in its most rancid and_pernicious form—had actuated him. He was, in reality, a cow- ard, a traitor, and a fool. Still, she felt grateful to him, for her work had been successfully accomplished. Hod he been braver, more defiant, more genuinely de- voted to the shameless woman who had just Jeft, she would still have been here in the midst of the danger. Sallie sat quivering. There was no need for her to remain a moment longer, but . . she craved to sce them both safely away. Miss Hampton might return . . .. in order to prove her alrcady sufficiently proven disdain for the <onventions and the proprieties. And jf she came back, £he might prevail upon this shaken thing called man to trust to chance. Such a possibility, far fetched though it assured- Iy was, caused Sallie to sit there, and to gather up her forces to help him in his cemolition of the apartment. Her strength returned to her. and her lightness of heart with it If had all been very trying, but ske had much to be thankful for. She took a few cheap pictures from the wall and handed them o him. She removed half a dozen photo- aphs from the tel-plece. It gave er a shock to find among the staring collection a picture of Jack Childers. This proved to her the completion of Miss Hampton's moral disintegration. She not only ruthlessiy betrayed her flance, but she flauntedt his portrai where she could look upon it in her communion with the actor. It was ‘the acme of perfidy, the very ecstasy of in- famy. On the picture she read In Jack’s hand- writing: Is it not very handsome?” Poor Jack! Little had he imagined the uses to which (hl- portrait would be put. As he wrote fhose foolish, lightly pen. ned words, It bad not occurred to him to invest them with an ironicak subtlety. A temptation to take the portrait and to keep it assailed her, but she resisted it. "It was not hers, and . she did not want it. It had been given to this woman, and it should stay with her. Perhaps later on, when the day of. re- murse came (for Sallie was old-fashicned enough to believe that days of remorse always came in cases lige these; she had read that thev did). Miss H mptg would writhe at this rem<mbrance of da¥s that were easier and brighter. When she had trampled herself in the mud (mud was Miss Sydennam's invariable synonym for degradation), she would look at this bland, smiling picture with the frivolous inscription, and curse hersell. The dismantiement of the room completing ftself swiftly. She gave assistance to Mr. Stuyvesant, who, now that Miss Hampton had gone, scemed unduly hurried. He had suggested to Sal- lie the advisability .of aeparting. tle could get along very well aione, thanks . there was really no need for her to remain .* . it was extremely kind of her. She did not address him, as her sense of repulsion, in spite of ail, was tvo great. ®he regarded him as though he wefe a reptile in a zoological garden. His an- tics, his movements, his haste, his exc ment . . . she saw them all, as though she were a spectator at a public perfur- mance. He was one of the higest parodies on man that she had ever ndticed. Still, the situation was saved. That fact seem- ed 1o buzz in her ears. It was a splendid achievement. At least half an hour had passed since Miss Hampton left. She was now at home in all her beautiful arch girlhood, with the silver-gold hair knotted at the nape of her neck. And she was talking ingenuously to Mrs. Hampton and telling pretiy stories of the girl-friends she had visited, and the ’ ry ple; nt afterncon” she had spent. And” Mrs. Hampton was quite satified. Ballie could almost see the silly old dame with the gold-rimmed lorgnettes aping the mannerisms of the ultra-exclu=ive. And through the gold lorgnettes she saw nothing . . . absolutely nothing. Gold lorgnettes were inadequate to the task of focusing the truth. They could not see into the heart of the turgid young woman with the silver-gold hair. Per- haps gold lorgnettes e¢mitting X-rays would “have been equally incompetent io penetrate the opacity of lvy Hamp- on. She tossed the varied articles to Ar- thur Stuyvesant, and watched him idly as he deposited them in the open re- ceptacles. The task was nearly finished. In ten minutes the home of the Comptons would be a shell . . .an empty husk. She remembered Ivy Hampton's slippers, and stooped to gather them up. They were red, embro.dered in heavy gold, pointed, thin, pretty. She handed them to_him. At that moment an insufferable odor of escaping gas reached her nostril It was so strong, so unmistakable, that it caused her to gasp. Arthur Stuyvesant had become aware of the same thing. Undoubtedly there was a leak somewhere, Without a)eak!ng. they both tried the gas-brack®s, to see if, by some mistake, they had been turned on_ Nobody had tampered with the gas . it had not Whence came the pungent odor, and why had it so suddenly forced itself upon them? Sallie grew restive. he had no desire to be found herc~in his apartment, picturesquely suffocated been touched. with Mr. Stuyvesant. It would be too horrible—not the suffocation, bt the Juxtaposition with the actor. A nauseat- ing idea suddenly seized her. She took her hat from the hung it, and . She 'heard discussing gas. whis peg upon which she had voices outside—evidently There was a murmur, a er, a scarcely perceptible brjpu-haha. somebody ~ knocked s e door, loudly, boldly, and cried: “Open at once. There is 4n escape of gas.” Sailie stood in the alcove, by the bed, from which she had just rescued Miss Hampten's red-gold ~ slippers. Arthur Stuyvesant went to the door and threw it open. An instant later a well-lressed, tan-gloved man entered. He watked up to the nearest gas-bracket and madej a feint of testng it. Then he looked/at i)le room, devoured Miss Sydenh: with iis eyes, as though not a detail\pf her gress, not a line of her form, not ture of her face.ghould escape hi stood paralyzed with astonishment. thur Stuyvesant, red to the roots of hair,” understood. L Miss Sydenham was not left long.in po¥- plexity. The well-dressed, tan-gloved man was followed by a timid, reluctant youth, in whom Sallie immediately recugnlzcd little Robinson, the reporter. . “It's all right, Robinson,” said the man. “Nothing more.” Then, with Ironical po- liteness:” ‘““Thank you, Mr. and Mrs Compton. I find that the gas was escap- ing in the hall only. I have just turned - it off.. A thousand pardons for disturbing you.” Little Robinson, shaking from his boots upward, white, distraught, amazed, stood staring at Sallle Sydenham as she was revealed in the dismantled room, smiling at him—ves, positively smiling at him. He sat down and passed his hand over his eves. Detectlve Sylvester Jackson, al- ways ineffably busy, had left. Little Rob- inson had made on¢ effort to detain him— to say something—anything—but he feit incoherent. The detective, smiliag at this very apparent instance of reportorial hu- man weakness, had merely patted him indulgently on the shoulder. He had oth- er fish to fry. He had already’ popped the “mysterfous veiled lady” ‘into a very wide-open saucepan. “You!" cried little Robinson at last, his loyal heart wrung. “You, Miss Syden- ham. I don’t believe i It isn't true. Tell me—say it isn't true. i “But it is, Robinson,” Sallie replied en- ergetically. ““You came here with the worthy Mr. Jackson to find Mr? Arthur Stuyvesant's accomplice. And, well-you can’t find her, dear boy, can you? The truth is that there was no accomplice. It was a pretty story, but it wasn't true, was it, Mr. Stuyvesant She did not understand. Arthur Stuy- vesant, hard as his hide was, realized that she did not understand. In her fit- ful joy at the certainty that Jack Chil- ders’ cousin was far from.the scene of “detectiving” she could grasp nothing elee. An honest sentiment of genuine pity came Into his heart. “Of course it wasn't true,” he said boisterously. ‘““There was nobody here, and you came just to—just to Interview me for the * * * paper. Little Robinson sat there and moaned: It is hateful. It is detestable.”” Then, *“What shall I say, Miss Sydenham? Help me out.”” She laughed at him. Could it be that he was agitated merely because he was balked of his prey? For he surely was balked. He had accompanied the de- tective, certain of discovering the identity of the woman of mystery. And lo, therg was no mystery! There was, moreover, no woman. It was really rather amusing. “You can say you found me,” she cried hilariously. _“Poor old Green will fall oft his chair with mortification. It is a pity that we can't oblige him. Perhaps he will even try to picture me * * * as— the—veiled lady.” Her own words awoke him. She saw the ~situation for the first Yime. The white, drawn face of little Robinson gave her a shock. Yes, she quite understood ® ¢ * put it was too absurd * * * too preposterously grotesque * * * too over- drawn. The.three of them sat there staring at one another. CHAPTER XX. The devotion of a very young man to a woman somewhat his senior is not un- usual, and it is not lacking in a certain crude and picturesque beauty. Its pre- dominant flavor is chivalry, rather than mere physical attraction, though perbaps it is never wholly platonic. The woman gencrally responds with some awakened instinct of maternity. Little Robinson's attachment to Sallie Sydenham belonged to this order of affection. He admired her sincerely In his earnest, boyish fashion. Magny a time had he defended her against the crass insinuations of Owldom and checked the ifsensate reportorial jests of bis colleagues. He had fought battles for her unasked, and, in diffident knight- hood, had pledged himself to her support. He did not attempt to fathom the whim- sicalities of her character, nor to argue pro and con with respect 4o her uncon- ventional behavior. He simply accepted g =L Ctasmm —( J “do 1o L . son,” she sald lightly. A(\s\?.,’-')fljt ‘ ~ald. T L) why. . Little Robinson was very young. Had he lived a century earlier he would have done interesting things In aninteresting way. In Owldom he was ynhappy. The vulgarity of hisrdaily:tasks”offended his simple, chivalrgus nature. Perpetual con- tact with the doings of unlovely people, and the happenings_in their tight-wedged werld, went against-his grain. He could not accustom himself to the vagaries of Newspaper Row, -and, although he had long ago made up his mind to do the best he could, it was a feeble best. with little promise in its wake. The shock of this astounding denoue- ment 46 the banal history of agdultery that Mr. Green had yumyummed as a tit-bit of a partlcularly choice descrip- tion Lénumbed his energies. For a time he was’'imable to thigk. Detective Syl- vester Jackson had focused the picture of the woman discovered with Arthur Stuyvesant in his mind's eye. bllssfully convinced that he could “idEptify her in court” if necessary, and he fiad gone. As the power to think returned to him, little Robinson wonderyed if, in his distress, he had revealed her name. He could not remember: heygather thought that he had. He was fghorant of the intricacies of divorce subtleties, and had no Knowl- edge of the methods that they folliwed. Arthur Stuyvesant was the first to puncture the thick, gray. resilient silence. Although the role played by Miss Syd- enham was unintelligible to him, "he grasved the danger \?f his position. He disliked the woman who had been a stumbling block in his way for so long. but he had no desire to:see her ‘branded in this manner. He dimly reasoned that the “paper” might *“do something” to prevent publicity, now that one, of its most admired contributors was apparent- v involv He felt safe; still, selfish and utterly personal .though he ‘was. he realized that the blithe injustice of “ap- pearances’” in this case was too flagrant. - )t course vou will understand.” he id. *“and your city editor will under- stand, that Miss Sydenham’s presence here was purely accidental. She will ex- plain it. You look disturbed. Pray “con- x:ihh‘r h(:w very unnecessary such agita- on Sallie, though she at last realized the possible significance of the event, recov- ered herself quickly and. palely Tose to the cecasion, “Don't be a silly boy, Robinson,” she sald. “It is all as clear as a pikestaff. T am poor but honest, as you know. Go down town, tell Mr. Green the truth, and nothing but the truth, and Tll explain later. ~After all, old man. I think they all like me in_the office. They have always treated me well, and I have nothing to fear. One word from me— and they'll see it all. Don’t look so blank, dear little chap.” If ten men, with Bibles in their hands had sworn to this boy—to this little loy excrescence on the skin of a sordid age— that he would have found in this rocm ® ® ¢ what he had found * * * he would have jeered derisively. He would bave refused to believe. But he was con- fronted by the evidence of his own senses and the sight overwhelmed him. Some philosophers maintain that the testimony of sense is fallacious: but poor little Rob- inson was not a philosopher. Explain to me, Miss Sydenham,” he implored piteously. *‘Explain to me. I—I * * * you know I like you so much. Explain to me. Bother the office. Do you think I wouldn't rather give the whole thing up—than go near Mr. Green, or any of them again—than cause you trouble—make things hard for you? Ex- plain to me * * * not because you have to, or for the sake of the newspaper— but because I am—I am your friend. Ex- plain to me. Do.” He was tremulously in earnest, and even the hard-shell sophistication of ar- thur Stuyvesant was profoundly touched. Sallie was inclined to weaken under this stress of a so evident attachment. She had always liked little Robinson. Now she could have kissed him in warm ap- proval of his sentiments, and not because they referred to her. But it would never pathetic—and all that sort of braced herself up. 3 re i¥ nothing to explain, Robin- “Instead of dis- covering a haughty lady in this apart- ment * * * you fourdd me. And you know me. I am very beautiful, but not dangerous. I am an exquisite creature, but am warranted,;to be harmless. It is very mortifying, of course—and very rough on @Ir. Stuyvesant. He is a gentle- man of marvelous tact and culture. He is thqrefore acquitted on the spot. The driven snow is tainted, compared with me. Can you not see the unmistakable glance of bland and baby-like gentleness in my neat blue eye—in both my neat biua e \'l)onv,' cried the boy—‘‘don’t. Don’t make fun at a time like this, Just tell me why you were herey * ¢ ¢ that is all. I—I must know. | She wondered what4he could say, and cast about in her mind for a fitting re- sponse. Apparently she needed to be ‘set right”” even before this devoted little boy. But she could not tell him the truth. As she became aware of this, she grew nervous and embarrassed. She had no desire to be a martyr and a heroine. In plays and books, of course, it was always very lovely for a girl to im- molate herself, when a few cheap words would render thé immolation unnecessary. Arthur Stuyvesant tried to come to her rescue. “Don't worry Miss, Sydenham,” he . “I told you that she was here to luterview me on my oplnions.bn art, or the drama, or the: future of .the stage * * * and so forth,"y No,” Robinson retorted bitterly. “Miss Sydenham wouldn't want to Interview you—you.of all men.: The paper wouldn’ti print” your views. s¥éu have none—ex- cept cn women and forbiddenstoplcs. You are a coward—a cur—a beas Robinson rose, blood in his eye, pre- pared to inflict’ dire chastisement upon. the thickset actor. He was small, but he felt that he could do it. He itched to dis- figure the smug, smiling face, and to pound the body that took up so much. valuable space. Sallie at first felt in- clined to let him do his worst. She sympathized with the boy’s worthy in- dignation, and the idea of the fat actor, lying stretched on the floor, done into stupor by honest physical blows, ap- pealed to her. But it would only make matters worse, and present another loop- hole to the scandal-mongers. Mr. Stuy- vesant, pale, and not precisely in the humor to defend himself, moved away, and Sallie pushed the reporter back into his_chair. You mustn’t,” she sald quietly. “You have called Mr. Stuyvesant rather hard names. I indorse them. He is all that you say—a coward—a cur—a beast.” Her eves flashed, and her indignation em- E}mslzed itself. “He is even more—and & knows it. And now, Mr. Robinson, you will realize that, under these circum- stances, the blindest fool could not im- agine, could not believe that my appear- ance ‘here had any subtleties. But I'll tell you the truth, as you seem 80 very anxious about {t. I was here to warn Mr. Stuyvesant, apd that is all. T had already warned him, and had you ar- rived an hour later you would have dis- covered that the bird had flown. That is the truth—and now you know ft. “But why did you warn him?' The little reporter glungerl from one labyrinth into another. Personally, he was satisfled when he heagd her echo his own vitu- pE{ifl\'e enithets. But the world could not hear this, and the world would want to know why she was here. ‘“Why did you warn him? What interest had vou in him? What did you care whether we found him, or whether we didn’t find him? What-—' “That will do,” Sallie said imperiously “That is' enough. I have- explained all that it is necessary to explain. You are not a very loyal fafend * * * you are very ready to believe in appearances. If you really liked me, as you say you do— and as T thought you did—you would not want every i dotted and every t crossed. ‘Tt is rot nice or kind.” But she knew that she was unjust. She was quite aware that the boy was en- deavoring to formulate a plausible, logi- cal statement in her favor. .He would have to describe a scene without the lit- tle embellishments of actuality. He was 7 _for his * Saints’ Everlasting Rest.”” ; 3 ; it existed. “His not to reason- anxlous to sketch a clean, determined picture—which should be clean and deter- mined—without her- appearance in its foreground. Still, she could do no more, She could not hint at tl presence of another. woman, revealing all but the name.- “That would merely pique Mr. Green's curiosity all the more. The mole- hill ‘'would become a stupendous moun- tain, or rather, the mountain _would de- velop into a whole range. Mr. Stuyvesant had retired to the alcove gladly enough and was finishing his packing. He had been insulted by them both; was his r}\:e to leave them “fight it out” between them. “Miss Sydenham,” sald little Robinson desperately, “won’t you tell me? You are—of course—quite innocent. 1 was a brute, a contemptible jackass—I ought to e kicked around the universe—for think- ing when I first came into this room . . . oh, you know . . . how could I help it? Just outside Jackson said to me, ‘Now, you'll see the woman. The first look inside the door will give the whole snap away.’ And then, after that hu- milfating, sneaking, tardly business with the gas, when we' entered . . I saw you! Can you blame me, Miss Sy- denham?- But, thank heaven, you loathe that man—that wife deserte 1 might have been quNe sure that you did. You were here to warn him. You won't say why or of what. You will tell me nothing more. Then, Miss Sydenham, I shall not 80 back to the office. 1 will never report there again—and to-moriow 1 shall send in my resignation.” He folded his arms and sat back in his chair, the light of a clear motive in his eyes.” And sallie was frightened, for ‘she felt that there was another siring to this trageay, and that little Robinson, robbed of n\kluymeul. would starve in a big city. She did not stop to think of the absurd rapidity of this unjustifiable conclusion. Sne was overwrought, un- able to cope any further with a situa- . tion that projected a stone wall in all directions. This was the last straw that broke the camel's back. She saw him on a doorstep, white and emaciated, in rags and tatters, crying for a crust and moaning—perhaps—about his mother and the home of his childhood. Her sense of humor took itself wings and lew aloft. She burst Into tears. *Oh, you are cruel!’’ she sobbed. *“You really’ are, and 1 don’t know what to do. 1f you give up your position, what will happen? You will be wandering around the streets . . . and you will get to look like old Witherby . . with nothing to rely on but, ‘beats. ou make me feel that I am a wretch. 1 wish I were guilty’ and that you had caugnt me. It wenid be easier, and 1 shouldn’t care. Promise, promise that you won't re- BignEI o Little Robinson grew frantic as he saw her tears. Sallie Sydenham weeping! Sal- lie, light-nearted, frivolous, nimble- tongued, featner-brained, elastic-mooded —crying like this! It was all most amuz- ing, and—if she could have thought about it—it would have been more amazing to her. But the strain of recent events had been severe. Something had suap- ped, suddenly, in the wrong place—of course, in “ihe wrong puce—and she could not repress herself. “‘Sallle,” he said unsteadily, for_ good- ness' sake, don't cry. I was a fool to talk as I.did. I won't resign; I promise 1 won't. My dear, dear girl, do try and be calm. Even if I did resign, I assure you that I shouldn’t starve. 1 am a most_ able-bodied person, and 1 dare- say I have nine lives. But I won't do it.” I'll stand it all. Telt me what to do, and I'll do it. Let's put our heads to- gether and see what wa can arrunge.” Sallle wept steadily on—and the more she attempted to restrain herself the more unabie she seemed to regain her composure. The one touch or pathos hat the situation needed seemed to have been supplied by little Robinson. She would have reproached herselt so bit- terly if this accursed entanglement had re- acted upon his welfare. He was a foolish, impulsive boy, and she liked him very much indeed. She was fond of him in a sane elder-sisterly way. He was hopelessly perplexed and very deeply dejected. He took her hand and dared reverentdy to smooth her hair, and “he said ludicyous, soothing phrases, 'such as “There n “That's it!" Gradually her mood spent itself, and she dried her eyes and tried to smile and to consider the outlook alertly. “Thank you,” she said, half laughing, as he uttéred “There now! again, and capped ‘it with a “That's' it,” as though the remedial qualities of those phrascs were beyond cavil. “I am quite ashamed of myseif, old chap, but you made me cry. 1 sha'n’t do it again; you needn't be afrail: 1 wonder what Mr Childers would say if he saw a Jolly good feilow like me in tears. It is quite unmanly, fsn't it? It is a pastime for weak women, and I'fa not a weak woman, I'm thankfu: to say. ghe was ashamed for Stuyyesant to see her in tears; but the actor, busy at ‘his work, had paid little attention to them. He had now finished his pack- ing, and there was nothing further for him to do but leave. Everrthing was labeled with the address of a storage- house, and in the morning the goods would be sent for, and the home of the Comptons finally dismantled. As far as lvy Hampton was concerned, the situa- tion,. he thought, hadn’t a leg to stand on. Of that much he felt certain. He was . distinctly uncomfortable and 11l at ease in the knowledge that the people before him despised him too completely for expression. It was not a cozy situa- tion, and Stuyvesant, replete as he was with blunt edges, thoroughiy realized that. They had each of them called him a cur . . . and the force of this doubic suggestion 1made itself sentient. But except in the garish melodrama that is flaghed before an indiscriminating public, the worst villain is not as black as he is painted, and vice is never so thick- Iy faid on'as to be devold of ventilation. “Few are as bad as censortous professors imagine,” said Richard Baxter, anxloixs “In indeed, 1 find that human nature some, is corrupted into a greater likeness to devils ‘than I once thought any on earth had been. But even in the wicked there is more for grace to take advantage of, and more to testify for God and holi: pess, than 1 once belleved there had een.”” Arthur Stuyvesant felt that this clever woman would save the situation entirely. He did not even contemplate the possi- bility—grotesque and caricature-like—of finding his ndme coupled with hers. The powerful wheels of journalism wouid un- doubtedly interpose. It was all very trying, and the distress of the two news- aper cogs affected him. He would will- fagly have applied baim to their feelings if it had been in his Power to do so. But his sphere was restricted. The most de- cent thing that he could now do was to leave them. Yet he must avoid thank- ing her, or giving any clew to the blurred outlines of the map, by which the boy could profit. It was annoying, because a silent departure made him look even more blackguardly than was necessary. “I am ready, Miss Sydenham, and I will 0, he said. “Can I be of any use? 67 Well, if you will kindly turn out the lights and close the doors when you leave, you wiil be very kind. The villain slinks away,"” he added, with an uneasy laugh for little Robinson's benefit, “but, in-this case, Mr. Robinson, he iz misjudged. Appearances certainly prov- ed their own treachery.” Then, theatri- cally, “Miss Sydenham, of course, is sa peur et sans reproche. It goes withotit saying."” When he had left, Sallie’s sense of humor came back swiftly, as though completely ashamed of its tem- porary absence. She saw the absurd + side of things, and Mr. Stuyvesant's last words filled her with irresistible mirth. ““That!” she cried In uncontrollable merriment—‘‘that! I am sans peur et sans re*;mche and it goes without saying! Tsn't it killin slmply too screaming imagine the farce of having to ‘say’ anything! He is really a very amusingly revolting person. I should think that even on a desert island he would be de trop, shouldn’t you, Robinson? And you thought—when you ‘came into this room— no, I can’t believe it. You thought that “it was very quaint and inexplicable, but you didn’t imagine—" The chnviction of her mood was so ab- lute that little Robinson began to earn- tly wonder how he could have been such an ass. What was there, even in the seeming testimony of one's eyes, to warrant- such a ridiculous supposition? Are the eyes and the ears jmpervious to the rays of logic? Little Robinson pon- dered the question . . and then it oc- curred to him quite unpleasantiy that though his conviction was ineradicable, it was still not locked up by any luminous explanation. He had forgotten this fact; now he recalled it. “Tell me,” she persisted, “if you really thought that I was the veiled beauty’ Do. Then I shall no longer write about improbable plays, or bother to ecriticize things because they would not be pos- sibi 1 shall try to believe in every thing, and—when I remember this— fecl certain that I shall succeed. . “Of course,'whe sald haitingly, “1 was very much worked up, and I explained to you how Mr. Jackson had arranged things. He told me that I should surely see the guilty woman as soon as the door was opened. And [ saw you. I didn't stop to reason. I was a fool, of course: I know it now. But—but—don't remind me of it, Sallie.” “I motice,” she , remarked 00d- naturedly ‘‘that you are calling me Sallie. Don’t mind me. I like it. Keep on calling me Sallfe, old boy. It's my name. And as you've acquitted me and labeled me not gulity, I'm going to do a nice thing for You. 1 intend to introduce you to a very pretty sister of mine. You must come uj and dine with us, and we'll have higl old times.” = Little Robinson did not seem to be wildly elated at the prospect of an in- troduction to Sallie’s sister. But he was anxious to decently manipulate the fray- ed cdges of this situation. Miss Syden- ham apparently looked upon events with her accustomed cheeriness of outlook— and could turn to other toplcs—but the young reporter felt that nothing had really happened to mitigate the ugliness of the prospect. All that had really oc- curred might be called internal illumina- tion. But it was with externals that they had to deal. I am to go to the office—" he began. Yes,” she assented; and she gave her orders with slow emphasls. “You are to 8o to the office—llke a o boy—and a consclentious little repofter—and you are to see Mr. Green—and you are tv laugh—and you are to say in a rather vexed tone,” ‘Mr. Green, I'm sorry to say that the only woman we found with .\r;h r Stuyvesant was Sallle Sydenham,’ and— ‘Don't you think,” interrupted little Robinson, “‘that it would.ahe more telling if I went in laughing, and said some- thing like this: ‘ r. Green, such a 11! "The whole story caved in, for there wus no mystery and no veiled lady. We found him simply discussing platitudes with Miss Sydenham.” Don't you think that would be more forcible—more dip- lomati “No,” she replied; and she could not resist 2 smile at the boy’s labored Ma- chiavellianism. ‘It would be too elabo- old man. And you must remember that Mr. Green is suspiciops by nature, and by choice. Admit that you found a woman, and . then mention me. ¥or, after all, I am a~wuman, Robinson. 1 find it necessary to remind all my friends of that fact occasionally, and I don’t quite know why. But let Mr. Green's convicdon of the absurdity of the situation come naturally. Don't help it. Don't allow hin¥ to think that you are prejudiced either for or against the story. You went to the house with the d;l(‘»cli\c, and you found me. That is all. Little Robinson frowned anxiously. Per- pendicular lines furrowed themselves down his brow, and he reflected rather {:umfully for a moment or two. Then e sald: “‘But suppose Mr. Green should jump to horrid conclusions? If he did—if he did—oh, Sallie, I should punch him . . . I"know 1 should. I couldn’t help it; 1 begin to feel the need of punching someboay. 1f you had only let me work oft steam on the actor! . . . I think I'd sooner manage the thing in’ my own way, if you don't mind, Salile. If I see that Green, for one second, is inclined to regard the position in a way derogatory e e . shall smash him!" “Oh, Robinson,” she exclaimed, “‘please, please don't say such taings.” Then, as she realized the inspired loyalty of this doughty young champion, she went on: “I am grateful to you, old friend, for your allegiance. If, at first, Mr. Green takes an evil view of the case, you must remember that . . . you did it too, Robinson. Yes,” hoiding up her hand = he was about to impuisively jnterrupt her, “you could not resist the obvious con clusion. But as soon as you began to consider it, it showed itself to you as grotesque. The same thing may happen to Mr. Green. Why not? He is a kind man, and I think he likes me, but he is not as stanch an adherent as you are, you silly, impuisive boy. So don’t worry yourself ‘about anything that may hap- pen. Go to the ofiice, unburden yourseif of your story, and \théen—go home. I will see Mr. Green to-morrow, and everything ‘will come out all right; I know it; I feel it ir my bones, and am not in the least afraid. Perhaps,” she sald rather bit- terly, ‘I have béen a bad advertisement for womanhood. I have not done much, in the oftice, for the dignity of my sex. But, at least, I have never indicated a preference for wanton behavior, and my errors have been of the pe: "penny.” You have been a brick!” he exclaimed impulsively, “and it was just your un- conventionality that won us. Of course, we chattered about you—when you sald risky things, and wrote riskier—but it was because we had never met any girl like you. Bad womea don’t talk; they {ust think and act. We all know that ® . and I know one or two of the boys who'd fight for you to their last drop of biood.” “I don’'t want to be fitten for,” she said, with a laugh; but she was moved by this picturesque devotion, and by the agsres- sive attitude of the young reporter. It isu't_a case for bloodshed, Robinson,™ she went on. “Of course, a battle would be rather startling—and wouldn't the other papers enjoy it? But,” wearily, “ths sooner we end ali this the better. "It is nasty, however one may look at it. The themé is repulsive, and we must 8rop it. as though it were pitch. Let's go. The atmosphere Qf this place sickens me.” Tell me o thing,” he said suddenly, “and I promise never again to aliude to the subject. Thers was a woman here when you arrived."” Sallie looked into his eyes—splendid, fearless eyes, in which she saw the young, warm radiancy of his sentiment. It was cruel to use this boy blindly—to keep him in utter darkness, as though afraid of his chivalry when subjected to an illumi- nating ray of knowledge. She felt some- what ashamed of herself. Spe was be- having like the insensate heroines of the stage, who remain lugubriously silent un- til the fifth act, to pose as s in the eyes of those who clamor for fifty cents’ worth of highfalutin martyrdom. yet she was bound to be careful . . . for Jack Childers’ sake. It was Jack Chil- ders who was at stake, and so far he was luxuriously safe. _ She ed to Jjeopardize the position. Still, it was un- kind to treat this boy with such crude courtesy. ‘See here, Robingon,” she said; and she jut ‘her hands upon his [ went to him and shoulders and spoke into his eyes—“T rely upon your honor—upon your honor as a man. You must swear to me, on your solemn oath, that never—under any con- cefvable_circumstances—will you give me away. You must also swear that you will ask no further questions if I answer this. I . . I do appreciate your deve- tion, old boy, and that is why I cam't heip belleving that I am too rigid. You swear . . . “So help me God,” he sald solemnly. “Then,” she went on, “there was an- other woman. She was—she was a friend of mine. That is all. Are you satified > His eves lighted up, and he looked at her as though she were a saint, and he half expected to see a halo spreading from her head. To his boyish mind her action appealed as something super femi- ninely luminous. He told himseif that.no mere man could realize the depth and breadth and width of this sacrifice; for no mere man could ever be called upon to imperil a reputation for chastity . . . inasmuch as no mere man ever coveted such a reputation. To a woman it meant ‘a good deal. He tried to put himseif in her place and to imagine what her sen- satlons must have been when for a mo- ment he had judged the situation by its superficial measurements. Fool that he had been! - Unreasoning idiot! And just