The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, April 26, 1903, Page 3

THE SUNDAY CALL. ing going on e wasn't at the you came to added that he had Purdy’s house t hall had told a ssoer the theater; ' tried extract from neerr Miss rsal of *“Ma- e about it tact- satisfaction he part untold. ring very much of playing my Winifred eatd, how far she that,” New- thinking that <e you comfort- the part as they girl faltered on to tHe very last, on ause they must dn’t do it If I had peen hoped that at the last force me to take their not. Etill, if it hadn’t ¥ they might have suc- She helped me to get away, and 2t the theater guessed. When found out that I was gone—as they have long ago now—1 don’t know have done suppose in place. because it was ) e myself that I should he part exactly them to know e & secret, if it ng together when 1e with the news of had happened red’s disappearance. i flew down the passage to meet man when her 1atc y was he lock. She wanted ispered cautian before her come into the sitting- you guess the name of the man 1 et to escape from,” she sald e Purdy’s ear, ‘“please o to eny not even r will you? ople should 1 & pack this that I may be e. W ome Newcome had also a pri- e 0ld woman's ear. F to Miss Gray where a bed e up or e. Purdy had me apportioned oor & s to her unex- pected guest, since she herself slept in a er ter's downstalrs; since ewcome was willing to nce there was no reason it was like him, that to say! was made comfortable at her knight. blisstully he was sacrificing himsel? & the made Clara Purdy's e and Clara's fertile mind, r convalescence, suggested a Vinifred's safety from rther secured. Clara her tres: nor abundan pantomime ghe en and she had was an im- air. That wig reserved with care since then ive “prop,” which might be at any time, end In going in the streets this autumn it, as be more attrac- en hanging on her shoulders than wn rather scanty 11l now year in a provir had played the fai t likely to leave ays or a fortnight. e Miss Gray might have the wig d take it, ard as Miss Gray's box had been left in her dress- ing-room at the Thesplan Theater with y other things that were hers, Mi was at liberty to use Clara’s, whick tu not duty since the pantomime ast year. Miss Gray might make up with & wig and grease paints to look ite different from herself, and then, g eves spled her through door she would never be asso- the young lady who had run o plan. Clara’s sdvice was taken to a certain ifred did wear the wig and the soft, natural darkness of and lashes to give the same rtling contrast presented by y's own. Seelng her so, a it casually acquainted with pearance might, after a fleeting nd say that he y's daughter. passed and Winifred re- hiding. Accounts from e satisfactory. Suspicion oward Mrs. Purdy or sc, and Winifred had ause for satisfaction. e was restless and utter- Iy miserabie It was dreadful to be living on charity, with no present prospect of being able to repay the debt of gr de she owed, the girl chafed under her burden of umiliation. ¥ Why shouldn’t T go out with you and sing?” she suddenly flashed at New- come, when she couldn't stand the suspense eny longer. “In these clothes, with this wig of Clary Pur- nd a mask like yours, it would be sible for my own mother to know cept that she would recognize my voice in singing, which nobody here could do. And I can sing. I can really. Once 1 hoped to be a singer instead of an ac- trese, but that was long ago. I haven't had time for singing lately. But I shall do well enough for the street.” She was sorry for those last words of ali the instant they were uttered lest his feclings, since he sang in the street, should be hurt. But if they were, his menner and face kept the secret. He aid not seem to think of himself at all, but only of her. It would be impossible t she should do what she proposed he 1. It was not to be thought of for a moment But Winifred did think of it, and the she thought the more practicable 1 the idea. She had no fear of be- recognized in Clara Purdy’s clothes, k and wig: and neither Lionel Macaire member of the “Mazeppa” com- d ever heard her sing. Indeed, no m. seeme ing m nor pany ha one whose presence she need fear in Brighton would know her singing voice. Hope. Newcome made money enough to tide him over a cri¥is in his financial af- fairs: why 1d not she? Surely there in trying to earn an hon- this seemed the only road She would think of it, and talk of it d insist, despite her new protestations, until at last he understand that she would be open to h began to better in health and happier in mind if she were wed to have her own way. He consented to take her with him; and quite as excited as she had ever been on a first night in a new part she lifted up her volce to sing in the public street, ac- companied by Hope Newcome's banjo. The pair attracted quite a crowd, an when the masked man held out his banjo afterward a shower of small sliver and coppers went clinking in. Winifred's eyes, shadowed by her mask, reamed hither and thither as she stood #inging in the King's road or in less fm- portant thoroughfares for faces from the not one did she chance to see afternoon Lion® Macaire her by without a glance. me the episode of the fight, en begun to save her mask rom being torn aside by rude fingers. She had rushed away, adjured by New- come, and had not been there to see the millionaire when he returned. had her reasons for not wishing it that she and Lionel Macaire wcre Hope Newcome had given a promise that his dealings with the man should remain a secret, and so it was that fate began to play a pretty game of cross-purposes betaween the man and the girl who called each other “partners.” THE JEWEL IN THE TOAD'S HEAD. Hope Newcome had gusssed Winifred's late passed had ¢ one knowr acquaintan ces. difficulties without being told, for his mind was sensitized by his passionate love for the girl, and her thoughts, as t passed through her brain, seemed of! to print themselves upon his. If he had not engaged himself to go to London and train for the coming event, which 1 everything for his future, it might m would e been hard for him to bid her But as it was, though his bargain with Macalre was to be so profound u se- Newcome was joyous at the pros- of Winifred's departure to London. Even if he did not see here there for many ay to come it would be some- g to feel that she was not far away. 1id he advise her to go aas ble to her mother, but, when he had received the fifty pounds promised advance from Macaire he sent half the sum anonymously to Winifred. soon as pe Just how he should do this had been a puzzle. She would not take money from him, that was certain. He could not e a letter from the girl's mother, or from other of whom she had spoken rather sadly once or twice. And no friend was supposed to know her present He addressed an envelope in d hand to ““The Young Lady in the Mask, 13 Salt street, In the same cramped writing d a few lines on a sheet of pa- n, “This is from an invalld, blessed in this world’s goods, who, being wheeled in her: bath chair along the parade, has heard vou =ing favorite songs of her childhood in wour sweet volce. The pleasure you have given her has been better than medicine; and she begs that you v/l ac- cept the inclosure as a slight tripute of admiration.” To this sheet of paper Newcome had pinned bank notes for twenty-five pounds and had hardly been able to wait in pa- tience until the letter had been delivered at the house by the postman. Winifred's surprise and bewilderment were quite vivid enough to satisfy his boyishly eager anticipations; but he had to put forth all his powers of argument and persuasion before she would enter- tain the idea of using the money. What could she do with it else? he urged. As ehe did not know the name of the send- er ghe could not possibly return the present. Why not, then, consider the gift providential, believing that the thought had been put in somebody’'s head for the purpose of enabling her to go to the mother who needed her? It seemed to him that her course was clear; every other road was blocked. After her bitter experiences Winifred was inclined to be fearful and easily sus- piclou: She did not for an Ins t think of her “partner” as the mysterious bene- factor, because, as far as she knew, he was nearly as poor as herself. But she aid think of Lionel Macaire, asking her- self If he could have found out where she- was hiding, and be firing another mine to explode under her feet by and by. At last, however, the temptation to ac- cept the goods given by the gods was too strong for her. She imagined her mother dving, calling in vain for the hter who was kept away by a mere scruple. She remembered the debt she still owed to Sir Digby Fleld, and at the nursing home; and she decided that it would worse than folly to let the money, which could do so much, Jle idle. 1t evil came from it in the future, why the future must take care of itself. Having once come to this resolve, she grew quite reckless, for five and twenty pounds seemed so much for her to own after those days when she had been look- ing with regpect on every halfpenny. She gave Mrs. Purdy and Clara a present, and very shyly begged Hope Newcome to let her lend him a few sovereigns. This offer had its humorous side, since the money she was pressing upon him was In reality all his; but Newcome re- cefved it with a perfectly grave face. He was on the point of telling her that he needed nothing and would take nothing, when suddenly he had an idea which styuck him as brilliant. “That's awfully good of you,” he said, “and 1 will borrow a sovereign—I really don’t want more—on one condition, and one only /hat is that?” asked Winifred. “Well, you see, we've been partners, and nothing I hope can ever make us feel like strangers to each other again. And s0 I can take this money freely from you, if you'll promise me that in case you should be a little down on your luck at any time, and 1 was flush, you'd let me lend you something—something really worth while—just supposing, you know, that T could well afford it.” Such a contingency seemed at present rather remote, and so for the pleasure of lending him a pound to-day Winifred pledged herself to his condition for other days to come. That evening she let him see her off at the station, and he stayed in Brighton for the night (instead of going straight to town to begin work with his sparring partner in preparation for the coming contest) solely for the joy of receiving a letter which Winifred had promised to write. Next morning the letter came. She had written it before going to bed in the fa which had once been such a dear ho; to her and the little mother. Mrs. Gray's relapse had been caused by some bad news about her son, so the girl wrote, though she did not tell what the nature of the news had been; but the nurses hoped for the best, and Winifred thought that the sight of her might do her mother geod. She was not alone at the flat, she went on to say; her brother Dick was with her, having come to town only a few days before. And, thanks to,Winifred's new riches, they should get on comfort- ably for a while till “something turned up.” Of course, as they had had such sharp reverses of fortune the flat was now much too expensive for them, but they had it on their hands till it could be sub-let, and so they might better live in it than go eclsewhere. If Mr. Newcome came to town while Dick was with her she hoped that he would call upon his late *‘partner” and her brother. Hope Newcome thought this the most delightful letter that had ever been writ- ten or received, and it went into the pocket nearest his heart, where lay cel tain documents of a very different char- acter—documents that had brought nim to England. Then he wrote to Winifred, telling her that suddenly arranged business was cali- ing him to London, and that he should be only too happy to call upon her if she would let him. When this letter had been sent off he went to see Macaire at the Metropole to say that he was ready for work. But Macaire was engaged and he was kept walting. As a matter of fact, the millionaire was at that moment closeted with a detective in his employ. The man had received a telegram from a colleague in London with the information that Miss Gray had re- turned to her flat near Bryanston square, where she had joined' her brother quite openly and had gone with him to the nursing home in Welbeck street, where the mother lay ill, to inquire after the invalid’s health. Where she had been hiding meanwhile Lad not yet transpired and Macaire had some sarcastic comments to make upon his employe’s methods. When he had sent the detective away he saw Newcome and told him that he nhimself was ready to retyrn to town. He Lad run down to BrightorNfor a few days by the sea, as he didn’t care to go abroad this year, but after all, London was best; ond they might make the journey to- gether if Newcome liked. All this seemed very good-natured and unaffected, for Newcome's clothing, al- though not as conspicuous as that in which he had called upon George Ander- son at the Duke of Clarence’s, was shab- by at best; and handsome andawell set up as the wearer was, many men in Ma- calre's position might not have cared to have him for a traveling companion. Macaire had his own special car, made after an American model, and it was to accompany him in the gorgeous convey- ance that Newcome found himself invit- The millionaire was taciturn at first, @ppearing to be absorbed in singularly engrossing thoughts, the grewsome, glaz- ed skin on his forehead twitching nerv- ously from time to time; but after awhile his mood completely changed. He talked rapldly and even picturesquely about sporting matters in general and boxing in particular, seeming vastly keen upon the subject. He described Joe Nash, otherwise Joey the Kid, advising and warning Newcome of the best way to ‘‘tackle” so wary and formidable a cus- tomer; and then he drifted into talk of the stock exchange, growing almost con- fidentiel at last, describing some of his own early successes and {llustrating the maxim that “money makes money.” He had had but a moderate fortunte to start with, he sald, scarcely £30,000; but he had been ambitious and he had had ideas. At the age of 28 or 30 he had made up his mind exactly as to what he wanted in life and determined to get it. " He had speculated and been phenomenally lucky end the result had been—well, he would not say how much, but all the meney he was ever likely to want. Then he delgned to describe one or two of his first great claups and Newcome listened with atten- tion, Only & short time ago he had not been conscious of high worldly ambitions. He Lad always been poor, had even known great hardships since reaching manhood and he had expected to remaln poor. If he could accomplish the one task to which & beloved woman had solemnly dedicated his life he had thought that he would be satisfled. Afterward it would not matter #0 much what happened to him, though no doubt he would rub on somehow well enough when he went back to the States, where he was known and could get some- thing decent to do. But now all was suddenly changed. He was In love and he wanted Winifred Gray more than he had dreamed it was pos- eible for & man to want anything. Ambli- tion awoke with the prospect of the strange adventure In which he was en- gaging. Talk of money interested him. His heart quickened at the story tdld by Macaire and though his face betrayed nothing, seeming even indifferent as he listened without any particular expres- sion to the tale of how a man, beginning at an age not much greater than his own, liad grasped fortune he missed not one detail of a single anecdote. Macaire, though he fancled himself a student of character, would have been surprised could he have seen into Hope Newcome's mind. ‘When the millionaire was tired of tell- ing of his successes and how they had been made, he turned the conversation to the duties of rich men. He did not pose & dispenser of charity, he re- marked. That sort of thing he left to fellows who wanted to get on the soft side of Princesses and work of titles. As for him, he thought knighthoods posi- Uvely vulgar, they smelt of soap, beer, or groceries, and baronetcies weren't much better, unless a chap was born to them. “I shouldn’t sleep of nights if T didn" feel T was doing some good in the world, he exclaimed, with the well executed air of frankness, which those who knew him intimately recognized at once as leading up to something—something for which had better keep they their eyes open. “But I don't go in for charity in a lump — the kind that's meant to get Into the papers. presents of Christmas turkey to 50,00 poor people, or endowing hospitals, or glving gold plate to cathedrals. I like to help individuals, not the regular ‘slum- mers,’ though it's well enough to look after them, too, but people who have had hard luck and want just a ‘hand-up’ out of the slough. Now, for one instance of what ] mean, among many, there's a family called G ; & nice little wo 5 whom every one likes who knows her, and a daughter, who's on the stage. By the way, she was to have played here in Brighton I think, the other day, but there was a misunderstanding of some sort—I don't know what. I suppose that's what put her and her mother in my mind at this moment. Anyhow, the family has had hard luck lately, I hear, and I'd like to do. something for them—through the brother, perhaps—if I could manage it withopt its being known. I hate that sort of thing to be talkea about. I hate to have people’s thanks. Hanged if I know what to say to them or where.to look."” Hope Newcome's heart warmed to the eccentric and hideous millionaire, He had accepted his queer offer because it suited him, but he had mnot liked the man. Now it occurred to him that, like the toad which is supposed to hide the jewel of price in his ugly head, Lionel Macaire was better inside than out. He was cer- tainly not snobbish; that was proved by his treatment of a shabby young stranger, even though the stranger served his pur- pose, and now it seemed that he had a good heart. Newcome had had experiences in his twenty-six years which had made him reticent, slow to form opinions of people, and still slower to utter them. This habit of reserve clung to him now, he was not sure of Macaire, but he was inclined to believe him genuine, and his faint sus- piclions of the man were not increased by his mention of the Grays. On the con- trary, his pulses leaped at the sound of the name, and he was ready to encourage further confidences on the subject with- out betraying any special eagerness in drawing them out. If Macalre, remembering Newcome's championship of Winifred Gray outsi the stage-door of the Duke of Clarence's, watched his face for signs of emotion, he must have been disappointed. The young man looked civilly interested, just as he had looked before. “You must remember Miss Gray,” Ma- calre went on. “You hauled a man off the driver’'s seat of her cab the night I saw vou. Perhaps you knew her before?” saild Newcome, calmly, “I'd never seen her till that night. The affair you speak of happened quite by accl- dent.” “You didn’t run across her at Brighton, then “I wish I had,” Newcome answered, with such apparent frankness that no one could have suspected evasion. “I'd ve gone to see her act if she'd been plang in ‘Mazeppa.’"” “So would I. But as a well-wisher of the family—I can't say a friend, as I hardly know the Grayvs personally—I can't help thinking it's just as well she didn't—whatever was the reason that caused her to back out apparently at the last minute. One never knows the rights of these theairical quarrels. ‘Mazeppa,” as it was to have been played, judging from the posters, wasn’'t a piece I should have cared for a daughter or sister of mine to appear in."” “No,” sald Newcome, calmly. But there was a spark in his eye at the thought of those posters. “A man was telling me a day or two ago that the family are in financlal straits,” continued Macaire. *“The moth- er's {ll, and there's a ne'er-do-well young brother who failed in Ireland with a pa- per he'd taken shares in.” (Macaire had not needed his detective to tell him this; he had had a hand in that little transac- tion himself, having been a power be- “hind the editorfal throne which had top- “I don’t want to appear in the transaction at all: but if you come out ahead in this fight with the Kid, and make your bow In soclety as a young man of fashion, you might be able to help me do the trick and others of the <ame sort. Between us we might get young Gray a berth that would prop up the family fortunes, eh “If T can help, you may count on me for all I'm worth,” responded Newcome, this time not attempting to cool down the growing warmth in his breast. He liked Lionel Macalire; and now no warn- ing thrill bade him look before he leaped —to conclusfons. HOPE NEWCOME'S HARD LUCK. The bad news which had prostrated Mrs. Gray she d been pro- nounced out’rtuar from Dick. In a reckless moment he had staked most of the money sent by Winifred to buy himself out of the army on a horse, con- cerning which he had had a ‘“‘sure tip.” The horse had disappointed.expectations —Dick swore he had been drugged—the money was lost, and Dick was still a wearer of his Majesty's livery instead of being th® happy possessor of ten times the original sum sent him, as he had hoped. This disaster had been kept from Wini- fred, “lest it should worry her,” and be- cause the poor little invalid had had to worry all alone she had slipped back al- most to death’'s door. Had she dreamed of her daughter’s new trouble at Brigh- ton she would probably have died out- right; but she had not been well enough even to read the cautious letter sent by the girl from Mrs. Purdy’s. And mean- while things had mended with Dick, thcugh exactly why a certain piece of luck had come his way remained a mys- tery. 2 Meutenant in his regiment. indiffer- ent, even overbearing berore, had sudden- 1y appeared to take a fancy to him, and on learning through questions that Dick was the brother of Miss Gray, the petress, invited further confldences, and finelly lent the young private the money necessary to procure his freedom. All this had happened before Winifred ventured out of her hiding place to bold- ly return home, where she found Dick al- ready established, and very little ashamed to tell the tale of his folly, his misfor- tune and his rescue. The end of the story alarmed Winifred. Not only was her pride hurt that the brother for whom she had worked so hard in vain should be under obligations to a stranger, impossible at present to re- pay, but she was pricked with fear lest Maucaire’s hand had been In the busi- nees. For the officer who had come to Dick’s ald was sald not to be rich; in- deed, Dick informed her as part of the mystery that the young man was sup- posed to be deeply in debt. The girl could do nothing, however, toward repayihg the loan. The money she had left from her anonymous present must be used for her mother and for cur- rent expenses, which were increased by Dick's presence at home. Again the weary struggle to find an e ent be- gan, but, though the lawsuit she feared wus not begun, the affair in Brighton, from the enemy’'s point of view, was krown far and wide In theatrical circles, end the few managers wishing to engage actresses did not want Miss Winifred Gray. Sho had been exactly a fortnight in Lendon when a new blow fell. The officer who had lent Dick the money for his dis- charge wrote that he must ask for imme- diate payment, as he found himself in un- expected difficulties. Previously he had assured the young fellow that he might pay when he liked, or not at all—it mat- tered nothing to him. ’ ‘Winifred, to whom Dick instantly came with the letter, was at her wits’ end. There was no one whose advice or help she could ask. Her mother must not be told, and Dick had shown himself worse than a child in business affairs. She thought of Hope Newcome, as she nad thought many tfmes during the past two weeks, with a grieved pang because, though in London, he had never called or even written. She did not want mate- rial help from him, but poor and shabby and down on his luck as he was, her feel- ing for him was such as a damsel of old might have cherished for a knight who had ridden up and rescued her from mur. derous thi of this world's goods, but of courage and strength and chivalry he had more than pled.) in the forest. He had none any man she had ever known; and just to talk with him of her troubles as they had talked when they were “partners,” under their masks, would have been llke having a strong staff to lean upon in her ‘weariness. It was late one afternoon that she sat thinking of Hope Newcome, wondering why he had kept away, and whether he had already forgotten. She had Dick's Jetter from the officer In her hand and had been trying to concoct an answer, until the image of Hope Newcome had beckoned her thoughts to a distance. Darkness was falling, but gas cost money, which Winifred had not to sperd. ‘When Dick came in they would have a lamp; but Dick had gone down to Fleet street directly after their luncheon of bread and milk, hoping to place a story he had written, and had not yet come home. Suddenly the sound of the doorbell broke into her thoughts. It did not ring often now, for the girl who had been billed so brazenly for Mazeppa was in disgrace with her friends. Since she had returned from Brighton no one had called to see her. ‘Winifred's .nerves were now-in such a state that when anything unexpected happened she was frightened, heart beat fast. Suppose a man with a against her for breach of contract had come at last? Suppose Dick had got himself into fome new dllemma and she were to hear of it now? She had been with her mother in Welbeck street that morning, staying as long as the nurse allowed; but supposing word had come of another relapse? There was no servant in the little flat in sthese days. Winifred did all the work herself; and it was part of her work to answer the bell. She went to the door now in the half darkness, quivering and thre with vague terrors of what she might have to see or hear. t there on the threshold stood Hope Newcome, and her relief was so Intense that she gave a little cry of joy and held out both hands. “Oh, partner, it's you!"” she exclaimed. “I'm so glad! He caught her hands and gripped them tightly—so tightly that it hurt; but Win- ifred was in a mood to be glad of such a hurt as this. “You've been a long time in remember- ing your promise,” she id, suddenly, feeling confused, and thankful for the darkness that hid her eyes and cheeks. “But come in. ‘I'm sorry my brother out. Perhaps, though, he will be here presently.” ‘With such conventional words she led him into the drawing-room—a very dif- ferent room from that in which they had had thelr talks at Mrs. Purdy's, yet only a mockery In its dainty grace to the emp- tiness of the family purse. * “Did you really believe I hadn’t remem- bered?”’” Newcome asked in an odd, tense voice, as if he were keeping back an army of words eager to press forward. “What else could I belleve? Unless that you were too busy.” She had her back to him, and was busily lighting a lamp on the table. It was so dark that they had hardly seen each other yet; still, she did not appear to be hurrying over her task. “Busy! As if being busy would have kept me away from you, after you had sald I might come. No, it wasn't that. Mayn't I light the lamp for you?” In & moment the rodm was full of light. She must look at him now, and meet his eyves, which she turned to do, with the beginning of a smile; but the smile changed to surprise before it had reached perfection. “Why, you—you—I hardly know you. But'how rude of me! I—' Hope Newcome laughed out boyishly. “You mean that from a ‘busker’ I've turned into a ‘swell.’ Please don't think you oughtn’'t to have shown you were astonished. 1 should have been disap- pointed if you hadn’t. Is it an improve- ment?"” 1t certainly was. The course of train- ing he had gone through to defeat “Joey the Kid” in the famous cellar under Ma- calre's palace, which he had done after a terrific ‘battle before a select coterle of the millionalre's friends, had put him into the best condition imaginable. A Bond. strest tajlor had done his best for the splendid ;youthful figure. What Newcome had lost in picturesqueness by his trans- formation he had more than gained in dis- tinetion. But, remembering him so vivid- 1y as he had been at Brighton, it was cer- tainly a shock to behold him in the smartest of frock coats, with a tall, shin- ing hat in his hand. “I—hardly know yet,” stammered Wini- fred. “You're quite like a prince In a fairy story—"" “If I am not a prince, at least I pass as a Baron,” he answered, still laughing. “May I introduce Baron von Zellheim, at your service? I don't hold out this hat for silver. Luckily, there's no need. I'm & sort of male Cinderella, only my clock won't strike the fatal hour of midnight, for—well, I hope for some time to come. But, dear Miss Gray—dear ‘partner,’ if you'll let me call you that still—joking apart, I've been waiting until I knew whether I was going to be & poor, seedy beggar, such as I was when I knew you first, or—almost & rich man, before I would permit myself to come and see you. The reason of that was, I wanted very much to say certain things to you which 1 had no business to say if I were to bs unfortunate, that I dared not trust my- self near you till my affairs were more ttled. But, oh! the struggle it's been to keep away,” Winifred did not answer. She could not it she would. A flame sesmed to run through her veins. She knew what were the things he wanted so much to say to her—she thought that she knew. And she was sure—suddenly, very, very sure—that she knew what she would wish to say in return. They had been standing, but the girl sank down on the sofa, which had been sacred to her mother. “May I sit by you and telt you all about everything that I can tell?”” he said. A look answered him, and he took the vacant place on the sofa. “I've come into some money,” he began to explain, hesitating a little. ‘“Perhaps if you knew how I'd got it you wouldn't approve. It isn’t—well, it isn’t quite 1deal, certainly. But I don’t think it's disho: orable.” “Ot course not, or you wouldn’t have taken the money,” sald Winifred. “Do you trust me for that—not know- ing?” “Yes; absolutely, partner.” “Thank you, a thousand times. I should like you to know the whole story, but- I'm bound for a time not to tell that to anybody. Still, there's the money; it's mine to do what I like with. If I keep my head I need never be poor again, and 1 mean to keep it. Just at present I'm being rather extravagant, but that's part of the plan. I only knew that everything was going to be all right for me a few days ago; and already f{'ve taken rooms at Walsingham' House, and have bought a horse, and done all sorts of things that would have seemed as far out of reach as the moon a few weeks ago. You re- member I told you that I'd come to Eng- land a few months ago on a mission? ‘Well, now I'm in a failr way to accomplish it—If it's to be done at wll” and her THE BURDEN OF REVENGE. ‘Winifred listened with excitement and deep Interest; yet there was a queer little pain in her heart. He had sald nothing yet of what she had guessed that he meant to say. Perhaps she had been mis- taken. Perhaps he had intended some- thing quite different. ‘“‘Before I can talk of what is nearest my heart, far nearer now than the mis- sion for which I was brought up,” he went on, “I must confess to you what the work is I came here to do. It was to bring a murderer to justice—to revenge the ruin he wrought in two lives. It is that for which I have lived, until lately. But now another interest has pushed it aside—perhaps it's a sin to let it do that —but I can't help it. The new interest is too strong for me—stronger than my soul. Has a man a right to love a woman and tell her so while there is such a bur- den on his life>"” “A burden of revenge?’ Winifred asked slowly. ‘‘Must the man bear {t? Can re- venge ever be ennobled”" ‘“Yes, a thousand times yes!” he cried, almost flercely. “Even for love it couldn’t be given up, for that would be a wrong to the dead.” “It ism't revenge for the man’'s own ‘wrongs, then?” “For those who gave him his life—his father and his mother. Do you say that he must not tell a woman of his love while he has such a mission to work out? If you do say so I shall know that you are right."” » “No—I don't say that; I can't say It,” whispered Winifred. “Then—you know, don’t you, what I long to ask? You are all the world to me, and heaven, too. Is it possible that you could learn to care for me a little, that you could forgive me the dark things I must keep in my mind—"" “I have learned already,” the girl broke in, “to care—not a little, but more than T can tell. I learned when we were part- ners. Since we first saw each other you have been my knight. Even at the very first I thought differently of you from any other man.” “‘It seems impossible,” cried Newcoms, “that you—such a girl as you—should even think of a shabby beggar— “You were a gentleman. What can a man be more? Oh, I wish you'd told me that—you liked me in Brighton.” “What a brute I shouli have been if I had! It's bad enough now. You ought to marry a millionaire.” Winifred shuddered and drew away a little from the arms that held her tigh “Oh—don’t speak to me of millionaires’ Newcome was quite willing not to. There were only two peraons in the world worth talking of at that moment—her- 1f and himself—and they talked of those two unceasingly, until Dick was heard at the door, and they began hastily to speak of the weather, or the first subject that came into their heads. Newcome and Dick were somehow In- troduced to each other, though it was clear that Dick did not at all under- stand who Baron von Zellheim was. They had not had many words together when ‘Winifred’s lover turned to her with a look that only she could read. “There was =0 much to talk of at first,” he sald, “that I forgot something important. But as it concerns your brother, perhaps it's just as well 1 waited till he came. Now he can answer for himself. Mr. Gray, I've heard from your sister that you writa. 1 don’t know whether it's In your line or whether you haven’t something you like better to do; but, anyway, I can,offer you a secretaryship if you'll have it, with a salary of seven gulneas a week.” “By Jove! that is good of you,” ex- clalmed Dick, who had a hearty and pleasant manner, which endeared him to strangers. “I'll be only too thankful to make It ‘In my line’ and do the very best I can, for I've had beastly luck lately, as maybe Winnie has told Is it you *“No,” sald Newcome, flushing a lttle, as Winifred remembered afterward. “It's a friend of mine, a richer man than I am—a very good fellow, not young. He's ergaged to-night,” continued Newcorne. “But will you dine with me to-morrow evening at the Savoy Hotel at 8, and go round with me to my rooms afterward to meet him?" “Delighted!” cried Dick, thankful that he had not pawned his evening clothes, s he had been tempted to do lately. “And I wonder if you would dine with me somewhere to-night,” went on New- come, “just we three alone? Do say ‘ye Miss Gray.” Winifred {114 say ‘“yes” with joy. MACAIRE'S SECRETARY. Half-past eleven came, and still no Dick. But just as the clock of St. Mary's Church struck 12 the door was flung open and Dick entered, whistling the latest mu- sic hall alr. Winifred ran to meet him. *“Oh, Dick, you'll wake everybody in the heouse,” she sald warningly. ‘“Well,” he echoed. “My appointment's ell right. And I'm to live in the hand- somest house in this old village.” “What—you won’t be at home? Oh, mother will be disappointed. Still, it can't be heiped. Anyhow, vou'll be in £enflon. going “For a while. And then I abroad with—him. Guess who. You'ye heard his name a thousand times. Think of one of the most important men In England. By Jove! Von Zellhelm h: some swell friends.” ‘Is he a great politician?” ; financler; sporting man—all round good fellow, I'll bet. And, by Jove, he' may do something for you. Seems he's interested in theaters. Got so much mon- ey he doesn’t know where to put it all. But guess, Winnfe.” The girl had grown suddenly pale. “I —can’t,” she faltored. “For heaven's sake, tell me—quickly.” “Well, I'm private secretary, please, to nobody less than Mr. Macaire.” With a cry Winifred sprang to her feet. “No, Dick—no!" she gasped. “Say you're only joking.” “Then 1 sbould tell & lle. I'm in dead earnest. What makes you 1ook so queer?"” The girl stood still, pressing a hand against each temple, her bright hair pushed back. “Did you say that—Llogel Macalre was Hope Newcome's—Baron von Zejlheim's friend?"” she asked. “Rather. They’re no énd of chums, Ma- calre calls Von Zellhelm ‘my dear boy,” and pats him on the shoffler. He thanked Von Zellheim for bringing us together, which it seems had all been arranged be- tween them for some time before it came oft. And I can tell you I have to thank young Zellheim, too. This will be the making of me, Win.” “It will be the undoing of us all,” she moaned. ‘“‘Oh, heavens, to think that he should be false, too.” Dick stopped in his walk and stared at her. don't know what you're driving at, Si he sald. She seemed to be looking at him, though her eyes, dark with pain, saw nothing save Hope Newcome's face, which rose i you Lionel ‘you must he made. The thing's settled. I Bo to work early to-morrow morning. Some time this winter he and I are off to the Riviera and Monte Carlo together; think of that!" “I can’t think of it. It won’t bear think- ing of. For heaven's sake, sit down and write a letter saying that—tht you ac- cepted the offer under a misapprehension —anything—only make it dignified and firm. Oh, Dick, listen to me! The ‘Wworst trouble I have ever known has come from this man. He has persecuted me. You weren’t told because, though you're older than I am, you're very young in many ways, and it seemed best not. Even mother doesn’t know nearly all. Because I wouldn’t listen to his hateful love mak- ng—' ““What!"” broke in Dick. “He made love to you? I didn’t know you'd ever met him. For goodness’ sake, why couldn't you taks him? He's no beauty, but, by Jove, I shouldn't have thought there was a girl In England who wouldn't hawve snapped at the chance of being Mrs. Lio= nel Macaire.” “T would not have taken that chance,”™ sald Winifred. “He is a horrible man. But It was not offered to me. Rumor say thers is a Mrs. Macaire-a woman married long ago for her money, and per- haps drove mad, for she's sald to be In an asylum."” You mean, then—" ‘Oh, Dick, don’t ask me what I mean." Dick began walking up and down again, but his face was very grave, even sulky. He looked as he felt, personally injured by his sister's explosion. “I'll bet anything you wers mistaken,™ he sald. “Girls are so morbid, they're ways Imagining queer things—egpecially girls on the stags. They're always think- ing men want to insult them. I don't believe poor old Macaire meant anything of the sort. He's old—must be nearly six- ty—not & bit that kind. And why should he pick you out, anyhow, when there ars such a lot of girls in the world?” “Why, ‘indeed!”” echoed Winifred. “But whether you defend him or not, you cer- tainly won't put me and yourself into his power by —" “You seem to think yourself a young person of some importance, my dear,” retorted Dick, “that one of the biggest millionaires in the country should be fret- ting himself sick to get you ‘In his pow= er, as you call ft. If this is all a plot against you, and I'm a mere figurehead, why, your Hope Newcome von Zellheim is fn it pretty thick, too.” The taunt was a sword iIn Winifred's heart. With a moan, like a dove wound- ed to the death, she covered her face with her hands and sobbed. ‘Winifred slept not at all that night. She told herself that never before had she known what real unhappiness was. She could have borne to glive up her lover, but to know him unworthy—to know him, to whom she had surrendered her whole con- fidence, her whole heart, in the plot against her, perhaps from the very first —seemed more than she could bear and live. Early in the morning she heard Dick stirring in his room, which was next to hers. At first she hoped that he had risen betimes to come and tell her that he was sorry for last night; that he had made up his mind, if only for her sake, not to go to Lionel Macaire. But she soon found out her mistake. Dick was packing. He did not even come to her door before he went, though he passed it, dragging the box, which he would leave in the hall outside for the janitor of the flats to carry down. “If only he tells Lionel Macaire why I have refused to see him—my own brother —while he lives under his roof!” she thought. At least she would like to feel that Macaire had little upon which to con~ gratulate himself. But Dick had no intention of telling his new employer anything of the kind. If, as he argued, he “went blabbing’”” to Ma- caire all Winnie's silly fancies, probably he should soon find himself out in the cold. Naturally, Macaire would ot wish to keep for his secretary a young man whose sister imagined that he entertained a wild passion for her, and plotted for her undoing. He had decided not to say anything to young Baron von Zellheim, either, for what Von Zellheim heard Ma- caire would hear also, as they appeared to be such intimate friends. Winnie had sald that she would not explain; Von Zellheim *“would understand” why was forbidden to see her, without that; and whether he did understand or no was not Dick’s business. Winnie and Von Zell- heim could fight their quarrel out be- tween them. Dick was rather unhappy for & few hours, for he was fond of Winifred in his way, and was sorry to have gone against her, though he did not for a moment real- Iy regret what he had done. But, estab- lished in his new quarters at Macaire's beautiful house, far more magnificent than anything he had ever seen, his spire its bounded up again. Macaire treated him right royally, and Dick was more in- dignant than ever that Winnie should cherish such unjust suspicions of so good a fellow. He found that he was not Macaire’s only secretary. Thers was another, an elderly man of a retiring disposition, who apparently loved work for its own sake; but he was on a very different footing in the big household from that on which Dick” was at once vlaced. ERJer from his own choice or becauss Macaire pre- ferred it_this person had his meals served in the room where he attended to his correspondence, and was seldom seen out- side it, except when taking instructions from the millionaire; while, on the con- trary, Dick was constantly in request. His daily task apparently was to do noth- ing more arduous than sending out ow answering notes of Invitation to enter- tainments, though even that bade fair to occupy him for couple of hours each morning. The first day in his new berth he lunch- ed with Macaire and a half dozen rich city men who had been asked to the house. He drank a great deal of cham- pagne, smoked several cigars which he thought fit for Olympus and was excited and happy, contrasting the present with the past In scorn for the latter. The man who sat next him at the table took him quite seriously, despite his youth, and talked so alluringly of the stock market that Dick resolved as soon as he could scrape enough sovereigns together to go in for a little plunge of his own. That afternoon he went with Macalrs to the park to try a pair of 2000-guinea horses. Not a word was sald about Wint- fred, who seemed to vanish into the back- ground, appearing of less and less mpor- tance among so many really big Interests in her brother's eyes. Macaire was dining out In the evening, but a dinner was served for Dick such as could have been prepared at only a very few of the best London hotels; and that the millionaire’s famous chef, whose salary was £1500 a year, should exert him- self for the insignificant second secretary before them as if to mock her with its-~Was flattering. sham nobility, its sham truth, its sham love. But It was not for Dick to know the bister anguish, the shame that made her writhe. . “It doesn’t matter,” she answered him dully, almost sllenly. “You can't possibly be Mr. Macaire's secretary, Dick—that's all. 3 “Can't? he repeated. ‘“‘My dear girl, Dick was just finishing a bottle of Nuits St. George, which fllled his veins with a tingle as of electricity, when a footman of ‘whom he still stood in awe informed him that Baron von Zellheim was anxious to see him. “Ask him to come here and have a coffee and liquor with me,” com- manded the young man with his lordliest alr. And two minutes later Newcome,