The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, April 26, 1903, Page 4

in morning dr was shown into the dining-room, looking pale, even hag- gard “Nothing at all for me, thanks,” he sald, impatiently brushing Dick's hospi- tality away with a g.sture. “Do you mind having in what you want and sending the alone Newcome de- is your sister?” n her to-day. I—er—leit sme before she was up,” Dick answered. I had a letter from her this morning ding me to attempt to see her again ite and offering not a word of x f couid not sit iaid g see her— t the door was not opened suggested Dick. e: though, will be She 1 an envelope utely at a loss lert nly thing ven's sake if you know for a moment and his »yish rings of hair, d not tell this man s treachery of which ] » and Macaire to- 1d stand it. He Iy be break a wasps' own ears, without doing as far as he could see often confide in me.” “She thinks I'm _t0o0 ood. I've been > what you can w what girls are, They pride them- himsical and capricious it's fascinating by to- write you though I'm deserves such 2 which g over something > o ed Dick, “‘and ah rom what she A spark leaped into Newcome's dark eyves. Al he exclaimed, and gave no hint I was on his mind, out Y T back « 1 he had told mission upor which to a murderer. That the one rift in the sweet music of rtently hit . The rift was to be fc wreak veng confess THE MOONSTONE SPHINX. Weeks went « nd life pressed hardly upon W Gra The one comfort she hac t her mother, though still very weak, was no longer they were together that, was something to de- alld was strong into cheap lodgings in nifred tried again to sly ven at last from the : se who made a engaging music hall artistes, she rece ed two guineas eve day night; and as she did not know that she been on the strength of the lazeppa’ reclame rather than for her charming young face, her rep: as an actress her genuine tale . de the best of the new life mother of questions uld not be replied almost ling letter she wrote him he had ft to go his own way. O me money, but this was prom; ack again, a his mother from Lionel’ Ma- in ignorance of and they all co- h with his wishes. The t know of her doings sked minstrels p” with Hope believe and her brief Newcome. He that ber acq Newcome had been more ths for championship of her cause near the stage-door of the Duke of Clarence The 0 long ago, and per- haps a meeting when Newcome had found his way to the flat to engage Dick Gray as his secret This method careful of securing Dick had been v Macaire, however, so that in case nifred had remembered handsome, picturesque Newcome with ad- miration, he would be stained black in her eyes forever. The millionaire knew her feelings to- ward himself well enough to be sure (liat if Newcome were associated with him in her mi e would at once become hateful 1o her. He had exacted Newcome's prom- ise to preserve the secret of their bargain, #0 that their acquaintance should not be prematurely known, and then,#Dick once engaged as his secretary, he had opened the bag with a malicious chuckle, that the cat might spring out. Once or twice during the short interval That Winifred was left alone in the flat between her brother's going and her mother's homecoming, the desire for a @egperate coup had haunted him, beating about in his head like a great moth round & flame; but he had put it away for three sufficient reasons. In the first place, Winifred would at such a time, after her late experiences, be on her guard; in the second, the fallure of such a scheme would be fatal to others in the future; while in the third and most important place of all, the purpose for which he had taken Dick to live in luxury in his house was in & fair way of being accomplished: and its successful accompiishment would surely give him Winifred, revenge and tri- umph, all in the grasp of one outstretched band Meanwhile, he amused himself by throw- ing bait which Dick Gray was the unsus- pecting fish to snap at, and in watching the Baron von Zellheim's success in soci- ety. He laughed in his sleeve 1o see now people took up the handsome young man whom he had introduced, and at the ro- mantic stories regarding him. He laughed to see how well the new Baron played his part, and, more than all, he laughed at the thought of the surprise he had in store for everybody, inciuding his protege, at the end of the stipulated six months. With all hie wealth Macaire had n been able to gain an undisputed roonm?g‘ in the most exclusive set, though he had jent money to lesser royalties, and in consequence secured them for his dinner parties. But Baron von Zellheim was more fortunate in this regard. In a few months he aid what Macaire had not been sble to do in years. A great lady who tolerated the millionaire took a fancy to the young Baron von Zellheim and his wey was made easy. His title, but an in- ficant one, though thedn‘::ie o; an old German family, was not uted, or, if disputed, only enough talked about to make him a piquant personality, and he was invited everywhere—to many houses, indeed, where Macaire had never been asked until the handsome young man in his gratitude obtained him a welcome. Nobody, not even Macaire himself, dreamed of the true reason of the “Baron’s” insatiable fondness for soclety, his eagerness to make new acquaintances among the mighty ones of the land. But there was such a reason beneath all the young man's actions, deep under the sur- 4s some currents in the sea and as ¥ hidden. If it had not been so he would not have had heart or courage, after the loss of his love, for the life into whose vortex he had thrown himself. He went wherever it was fashionable to 80, wherever he was likely to meet pec- ple intent on the spending of much money for their own pleasure and he stayed no- where long: he seemed possessed by the spirit of restlessness. Sometimes he was in London; sometimes in Scotland: some- times in Paris, in Rome or in the Riviera: but his visits (save one to Germany, on private business) were only long enough to see for himself what personages of im- portance were amusing themselves in a place and the persoaages In whom alone he appeared interested were English, or at least English speaking. Baron von Zellheim had the reputation of being a very rich young man, not be- cause he had ever said that he was rich, but because he lived luxuriously and was a great friend of Macaire, who found the society of most poor men too dull, and be- cause Macaire had hinted*at his protege's wealth. . And this was another cause of laughter to Macaire, for he had the best of reusors for knowing exactly what the Baron’s in- come w on what it depended and how long it would last. He also liked Hope Newcome, though he was jealous of his strength. his youth and his good looks; nevertheless, he looked forward to the day which he had set for the great crash —the day on which society should see how it had been d: the day on which ¥. E “frien would learn what the early folly of F. B had done for him. Though the scheme in which Dick was the leading marionette worked well, it worked slowly. and to hurry it on Macaire at last decided that the long-talked-of trip to Monte Carlo should be undertaken. Here Macaire encouraged Dick to gam- ble and that young man with a new-born love of the game plunged heavily, until one night luck went against him and he lost his last coin. Then he remembered that in his pocket was an uncommon trinket of Macaire's, which the millionaire had tossed to him that afternoon, carelessly asking if he would take it to be repaired. It was sup- posed, his employer had said, to bring luck to its possessor, and he was rather superstitious about the thing, having car- ried it with him in his pocket for years. Still, judging from Macaire’s tone and in- erent way of handing it over to him repairing, Dick did not belleve that millionaire really attached great im- rtance to the fetich. T young man searched fn his pocket brought out in his hand a very curi- s fewel It was an exact representation of the Sphinx’s head, exquisitely carved from a single large Egyptian moonstone, hold- ing in its depths a marvelous blue light, radiant, elusive, like a soul imprisoned in the stone and striving to escape. Under- neath was a small gold screw, by which the luck-giving talisman could be fastened into the coat or the pocket of the wearer for safety: and it was the screw which had been broken. “I wonder if the bank would lend me anything on this?’ thought Dick. “I could get the thing back in a few minutes, for 1 feel I should have luck, if I only had the chance. And supposing I should muff it, why, 1 need merely pretend that the jeweler hadn't finished his work till 1 could reclaim it. Macalire’s such a good- natured fellow he wouldn't cut up rough at a little delay. However, he was shy of trying to pawn it with the gamekeper, as he had In mind to do: not knowing whether he might be rebuffed or not, but as he slocd not far from the table where he wished to be, gazing doubtfully at the moonstone and calc ing its value’a volce ad- iressed him in French. Looking up with a start he saw that the speaker was an elderly Parisienne, with bister under her sunken eyes, rouge on her haggard cheeks anf@l a handsome, poppy-red evening dress emphasizing the emaciation of her figure. “Monsfeur, If you will sell me that moconstone (I do not care for the gold screw with the initials; you eould keep that), 1 would give you, this minute, 1000 frencs. 1 should like to use it as a rival to my lucky pen (laughing she held out a golden pig with ruby eyes), which has basely betrayed me to-night.” Dick’s face flushed, and he bit his lip, his eyes traveling wistfully to the pocket- book studded with gold and French notes which the lady in red was producing from a brocaded silk bag that hung at her waist. Suppose he did sell the moonstone? He could tell Macaire that he had lost it, and Macaire would believe him, especlally if he kdbt the screw, which would be good evidence that the sphinx’s head had come off. Macaire would not mind much; he would be sure to forgive, and say: “It doesn’t matter.” With a thousand francs to stake all the luck of this evening could be re- ved. Something told him that it 1d be s0. “All right, you can have the sphinx,” he said abruptly. And the deal was closed. The lady had the jewel, Dick had the money, and the “something” which whispered hopefully of luck to come did not add that with the changing hands of the moonstone his fu- ture, his sister’s future and the future of two others would be changed as well. bad tri L WHAT THE LIGHT SHOWED. Dick’s spirit of prophecy had been a de- cetving spirit. He lost his thousand francs. Next morning Macaire said: “By the moonstone sphinx’s head I have repaired. When will it way, that gave you t The question came so abruptly, and the millionaire’s loek, to Lis secretary’s stricken conscience, seemed so keen that Dick grew confused, and instead of say- ing he had lost the mconstone and apologizing as had intended, he stam- mered that the Jéweler could nét do the work for a day or two. “Next time you're out just step in and tell him it will be a favor to me if he can let me have the thing to-morrow. The fact is, 1 feel quite lost without it,” sald Macaire; and Dick felt a sensation of coldness and welght in his breast. Last night nothing had seemed of im- portance, except to get money, and his employer had appeared to care little more for the moonstone than for fifty other valuable odds and ends whi:ch he flung recklessly about, or even gave to Dick or his valet if the mood seized him. Dick was very much frightened and could set- “tle himself to nothing ail da: P In the afternoon Macalre asked him if he had been to the jeweler's yet. “No,” faltered Dick. “The fact iy, I —" "He was on the poiut of beginning his made-up tale concerning the loss of the jewel when the millionaire broke in, for the first time in his secretary's ex- perience of him showing his anger. “By heaven!” he exclaimed. can't get anybody to remember my wishes. ‘What jeweler has the stone? I'll go to him myself.” Dick grew hot and cold. “No, no, Mr, haven't for- tmplored. *I 1 will go at I was busy. Macaire,” he really. once. For the rest of the day and far inic the night he searched the Casino In a frenzied effort to find the Frenchwomarn, to whom in his moment of madness he had sold the jewel, and when finally he #id come unexpectedly upon her, the price she airily fixed upon the moonstone was appalling. Dick was in utter de- spalr, when suddenly he remembercd having scen a roll of bank notes which Macaire had carelessly left on the desk in his sitting room. But he shrank from adding theft to his other folly. Still discovery, or worse, the prison, stared him in the face. But after all who would know that he was ihe thief? Might not some servant be blamed? His heart leaped at the thought and bid- ding the woman wait he hurried back tu the hotel. All was dark when Dick stepped softly into the room, and groping his way to the desk, which was near the window, felt for the roll of bank notes, upon which— i# it was in the place he had first seen it and left it—he knew exactly where to put his hand. But suddenly the room was flcoded with electric light,” and, dazzled and blinking, Dick saw Macalre standing with a finger and thumb still on the electric button which he had just turned. On the man’s hideous face was a look whieh Dick had never seen before—a look that was fiendish. “I was right, then; you are a thie,” he said. “You whom I have made my friend. You have stolen my money.” Dick could not speak. His lips fell apart, his eyes stared. “When I went out this afternoon L left on this desk a roll of bank notes which T intended to devote to a certain purpose,” Macalre went on. “There were £230 cx- actly. 1 had not been gone an hour when I remembered the money, and wherg I had put it. I should have thought u":u safe, as T knew you would be writing let- ters at the desk, had T not heard while I was out a thing which gave me a shock and opened my eyes. You told me that you had taken my moonstone to a jew- eler's, but a friend of mine who knaw what it was llke saw it at the Casino in the hands of a Frenchwoman, who was using it for luck. Knowing that I valued the thing, he asked the woman where she got it and wasg Informed that she had bought it last dight of a young English- man who wanted money for the game. Now, Gray, what have you to say to that?"” “I—I—" stammered Dick, like a school- boy arralgned by the master, “I meant to tell you. It was done in a moment of im- puise.” “A moment of impuise!” sneered Ma- cafre. “And it was in a moment of im- pulse that you took fifty pounds from the 10ll of money on my desk, relying on my carelessness ,or meaning perhaps, to put the theft on the servant.” “Who—who dared to say that?"” No one has sald so. But you should bave thought of your mother and sister.” “I must have been mad. For heaven's sake, have mercy."” “None of that conventional cant, if you please. But you speak of your mother and sister. On one condition, and one only, will I spare you the punishment you deserve.” Dick's eyes, strained and bloodshot in his agony, grew bright. “Tell me what it is and I'll do it—I'll do anything.” ’ “It's not for you to do. TI'll give you time to write home and get an answer by telegraph. If Winifred Gray cares enough for her brother to save him, she can.” “You want her to intercede for me? “I want her to buy you oft.” Dick grew pale. *“You mean—'' “I mean this. Two weeks from to-day I intend to be in London. I give a dinner on that night at nine o'clock to friends at my house. If she telegraphs you that‘she, consents to come to that dinner you can go to England with me a free man. No cne but ourselves need know what has happened. 1f she refuses you go to jall. and I'll stay on long enough to see you tkrough the court and make sure you get the sentence you merit. Then I go and leave you to think over your ingsatitude in prison.” “Oh, if that is all,” cried Dick, ‘“she would do that, and more, for me, I know —for mother's sake, if not mine. But it is so strange that you should wish—"" “That's my affair and hers,” broke in Macaire. ‘“Write now; tell her what you have done, and what I mean to do. Tell her I will only wait to act until she wires her answer. Whether you are disgraced for life, as you richly deserve to be, or whether you are spared, depends entirely upon her decision. Sit down now and write. Make this clear to her. And when you have written your letter I will read | Sed Dick half fell into the chair at the desk to which Macaire pointed, and, taking up a pen with fingers that shook almost too much to hold it, he began to write. As he wrote, bowing his face over his task, a tear or two fell on the letter, raising round blisters on the thick, creamy paper. He had always had the gift of writing, ard now, after the first eflort of begin- ning, he became eloquent, impassioned, in his appeal. He painted a terrible pie- ture of his future as it would be if Wini- fred {ailed him, and he strove to show what a small thng, after all, was exacted of her by the eccentric whim of Lionel Macaire. ‘When he had signed himself her repent- ant and distracted brother, loving her, hoping alone in her, while on the verge of madness, he gave the letter to Macalre, who read it slowly. “That will do," the latter pronounced at last. “She will get this the day after to- morrow. The same day you ought to re- ceive her telegram. Meantime, I advise you to have an {llness and keep to your room.” “You will dllow me to do that?"” quk stammered. ““Till the wire comes; then we shall see. But I warn you, there is no use thinking of giving me the slip. The ‘invalld’ will be watched too carefully for that. And an attempt would only make matters ‘worse for you in the end.” ““There will be no such attempt,” said Dick. “I promise.” Macaire sneered at him. “As though I'd take your word after what's happened! I shall have more than your promise to depend.on. T'll post this letter. Now go to your kennel, like the whipped dog you are.” All Dick’s blood seemed tingling in his face. His impulse was to strike and avenge this last insult: but his hand fell even as it clenched for lifting. The aw- ful look in Macaire's marred face cowed him as if, indeed, he bad been a whipped dog. Turing without another word, he went to his room, K Macaire following as far as the first threshold to watch him down the passage. “1In quietness and darkness, with his door locked, he walked the window that looked out upon the garish brightness of the rock-set town, blazing like a triple necklace of jewels against the blue velvet and gauze of sea and sky. If he chose— and dared—he might throw himself head- long out, and all would be ended. But no, he would not do that. He did not wish to die, leaving such a legacy of shame to his mother, for whom he longed now with a boy’s homesick longing. She loved him dearly still, in spite of all, and there was nothing she could not forgive. That was the way with mothers.. And Winifred would rescue him—Winifred, been partly right about M s, after all, As he stood gazing miserably out upon the crowds of light-hearted people, whose merriment mocked him, there came & quick knock at the docr. Dick went to it and listened for a few seconds, expecting he scarcely knew what; then in a low volce he'demanded who was there. “It's 1—Von Zellheim.” came the an- swer; and with a hopetul leap of the heart Dick unlocked the door. ““Thank heaven you're there!” he ex- claimed when Hope Newcome was with him and the key turned again. It was dark in the room, but Dick turned on the light, and Newcome uttered an ejaculation at sight of the younger man’s face. “Why, what's the matter?” he asked. *‘Haven't you heard anything from Ma- calre?” “No. 1 haven't seen him vet. I'm just from the train—strajght from London. I asked for the number of your room, for 1 wanted a talk with you before I saw any- body else. You look rather queer. I hope you aren’t {ll, or have had bad news from home."” There was something so strong and de- pendable in the personality of tpis tall, dark young man in traveling dréss that Dick's miserable, homesick heart went out to him. The need of confession, the desperate longing for some one to stand his friend, broke down the barriers of shamed vanity which would have hedged around the secret of his guflt; he blurted out the story of his own folly, leaving nothing untold save only the condition that Macaire had made. Instinctively he knew what Newcome's feelings would be at having a girl like Winifred dragged in. ¢He was afrald that Newcome might even try to prevent Winifred from accepting Macaire's terms. “Macalire threatens to call in the poiice and gharge me as a common thief,” he saldf “and all for sheer spite. He's got his money, and as for that wretched bau- ble, who would have dreamed, with all the jewelry which he throws about, that he cared a rap for it? But oh, Von Zell- heim, If there was any way of getting the thing again. You used to be frfendly with Winnie. You'd take some trouble for her sake still, perhaps, though she's treated you so badly, if only to show that you don’t bear malice. You're such a good- looking chap, and have such a way with you, that you can do anything with worm- en. For heaven's sake try to see this oid hag who made a fool of me and get the moonstone sphinx's head—" “What!” exclalmed Newcome, with a sudden start. ‘‘Macaire's jewel—that you sold—is it a blue moonstone carved into a sphinx's head, with a gold screw under- nefth. engraved with the initials ‘F. E. zZ. “You've seen it, then?” cried Dick. “No, but I'd give much to see it. Have 1 described it rightly?” “It's exact. The screw with the Initials in little letters at the top I8 in my pocket. The she-flend didn’t care for it.”" “Let me look,” sald Newcome. “And T'll promise you to get that sphinx’s head if I move heaven and earth to do it."” “Heaven bless you!" ejaculated Dick. “I hope it will. But it's a selfish wish. I came to England to find the man who had the sphinx's head. I came from England to Monte Carlo to see if Lionel Macaire was that man."” THE QUEST OF THE MOONSTONE. Half an hour after knocking at the door of Dick Gray's room, Hope Newcome went out again. Dick had been instructed not to mention his arrival. Downstalrs the name of the gentleman who had in- quired for Mr. Richard Gray of Macaire's party was not known. Those few words of Dick’s— the allusion to the sphinx’s head—had sent flashes of lightning through Newcome's veins. The mission which had brought him through strange vicissitudes and over many thou- sands of miles had seemed no further advanced, though for months his whole life had been given to it. Then, one day a man had begged of him in Park lane, near Lionel Macaire’s house, and New- come had given the man half a sovereign because he was an American, speaking with a strong Western accent. And th beggar, who was grateful and loquacious, began telling him a queer, rambling story. For very few ears would it have struck a keynote; the narrator himself knew not the value of his utterances, still less of his silence, or he would not have been begging in the strect, because the per- son from whom he had expected a gift was absent. But fate had ordained that his tongue should make music in the ear which could understand. Newcome took the man to a restaurant and gave him a meal, much as Macaire had done with him nearly five months ago In Brighton. Indeed, the thought of that occasion was printed in strong black and white upon his mind. In the midst of the wild elation, for which he could have shouted aloud, there was loathing of the memory that he had broken bread with Macaire not once, but many times. He was living on money which came to him from Macaire, also; and if it had not been for the secret which had darkened his life since boyhood, this reflection would -have half-maddened him—believing what he had begun to believe of the millionalre. But with the knowledge of that secret before him, the money became far more than eyer his own. It never had been Macaire's. He now had a right to fit, every penny—and more, which he might, but did not mean to claim. ‘Without letting the loquacious beggar guess that he was a person of importance, Newcome offered to support his country- man until he could get work. The shabby American was to be paid a pound at the end of every week—this, of course, render- ing it necessary that “Baron von Zell- heim’" should be kept in touch with him and in possession «f kis address, ‘When this matter was satisfactorily set- tled Newcome made certain inquiries about Macaire which he had never had the curlosity to make before. He ascer- tained, apparen m a easual way, whn the millionaire had first become known as a milllonalre, end traced back his career to a time before he had settled in Eng- land. All this would have been nothing with- out the clew which a beggar in the street had supplied; and the clew itself was only a broken thread. To find the other end and match together Newcome had trav- eled to Monte Carlo. There again fate had plavel into his bands through the ingenious plot of Ma- caire himself (for even the most astute of men make mistakes sometimes) and tha folly of wiack Gray. The clew was supplied—yet at the same time it was missing; and Newcome made up his mind that since the work he had to do must be done without bungling, what he had walted for so long he must wait for still. After all these years, what was a day—a week—a month? From Dick he had the description of the woman who had bought the moonstore, but he was not as fortunate as Dick had been in his quest for her. He could not find her at the Casino. After much mys- terious Investigation he learned that she had left Monte Carlo suddenly not an kour before Newcome had begun his search, ostensibly going to Paris. With. ‘out a moment's_hesitation-he set off in pursuit, but at Marseilles a vague doubt in his mind began to grow into a cer- tainty. x Supposing the Comtesse were but a pawn on Macaire's chess board? If he ‘were the man whom Newcome sought he who had might be eredited with a hidden motive far nearly every act of his life; and though Newcome had not thought of it until he was in the train, it was not im- possible that Macaire knew the Comtesse and had commissioned her to buy the jewel it Dick Gray could be induced to eell it. This would have been a way of testing Dick’s integrity, If Macaire had any reason for wishing to break it down; and it would be maddening if, after fol- lowing the woman across half France, he had to learn at last that the moon- stone sphiny had never really been cut of Macajrc's reach. There was nothing to do now but go on,-how»ver. and hope for the Lest. For the next four days he kept up the chase and finally had the pleasure of run- ning her down at the Spa. The season at S8pa was only just begin- ning: but one could gamble. That was the principal thing. THE STORY OF THE MOONSTONE. Newcome found out at what hotel the Comtesse de Silbery wi staying, and went there also. But it was in the gam- bling rooms that he saw her first. He could not have failed to recognize her from Dick Gray's description, for, as it happened, she wore the same poppy-red dress she had worn on the night when the moonstone changed hands: and in her dyed auburn hair were the same diamond pins flashing like fire-fiies as she moved her head. But had these signs failed he must still have known her fer on the ta- ble almost under her hand was the Sphinx's head, close to the ilttle pile of gold which its magical influence was to increase. Newcome stood close to her, and risked a few sovereigns. He lost steadily; she as steadily won. Belng too striking -and handsome a figure to pass unnoticed the Comtesse saw him, and pitied his bad luck. “If you but had my fetich, mon- sieur!” she said, laughing. to show a bleak gleam of false teeth. “If you like, I will lend it to you. Now, try again.” Newcome's hand thrilled as he touched the moonstone. At that moment he might have escaped with 1t through the crowd, and she could not have detained him. But the woman had trusted him, and meant kindness, He would not, even in playing for such high stak as governed the game he played in secret, have betrayed the trust. 7, He would have wished to lose rather than win, so that the Comtesse might see her talisman was not infallible, and value in it less. Nevertheless, as luck would have it, he won: and with thanks sail that he would no longer rob the lady of her fetich. He would play no more that night. Next evening he was purposely late for dinner, apd, seeing the Comtesse at a small table, he drew near, as if to be seated at the next wh'ch was available. As he advanced their cyes met; she gave bhim a half-bow, which he answered so impressively that with a gesture the old Frenchwoman beckoned him to her. 1If he chose, he might sit at heg table. She would explain to him her system, and if he took her advice he need no longer throw his money away as he had done last night. 5 “But madame has the wisdom of the sphinx to assist her,” he sald, smiling as he joyfully accepted the lady’s Invitation. This brought up the subject of the moonstone, and Newcome's heart sank, as every word the Comtesse spoke betrayed the fantastic value she set upon the Jewel. 2 It was not until they had been on friendly terms for three days, dining to- gether every evening, that he ventured to take advantage of the favor with which he was evidently regarded. The Com- tesse, always ready to talk of the moon- stone, had been drawn on to tell him that she had paid a thousard francs for it to a mad young Englishman at Monte Carlo. “Fancy selling it!”" she exclaimed. “Would you not sell It, Comtesse?” Newcome- questioned. She laughed. “Try me.” “Suppose I took you in earnest, and of- fered yoy a thousand pounds Instead of a thousand francs “Do you mean it?” Absolutely.” “No, then, my dear Baron von Zell- heim. Not for two thousand pounds. Not for twice two thousand. For, you see, I am fortunate enough not to be in need of money." “Is there anything that you do happen to be in need of, Comtesse? If there is anything you want that I could get for vou, I will get it—provided that you pay me with the sphinx's head.” “I will exchange it for the Koh-i-noor. Can you get me that?” “I might. But it will take time. Will you lend me your talisman?”’ “T have never vet lent anything I val- ued, not even a book, until I lent you the moonstone the other night, without your even asking. I don't know why I did it, unless—It was your cyes, I suppose. I am of a certain age, and I can safely tell you that.” “Will you lend it to me again—for a few days?'} “‘For the tables, you mean, as I use it?"” *“No, Comtesse to carry away to Lon- don. I should be only too pleased if you would come too.” “I never kmew so Impudent a young man!" sald the lady. “Neither I nor my moonstone will go to London.” “It is really my moonstone, if it comes to that,” Newcome said on a sudden im- pulse, speaking with far more coolness than he felt. i The Comtesse's face changed, and she set down her champagne glass to stare at him. “Your moonstone?” She did not know but that he led ud to some jest. “Mine by inheritance. It was stolen from—some one Very near to me. “Oh!” she paused thoughtfully. ‘Then —your coming here—our acquaintance— not an accldent?”’ “Comtesse, you led me a terrible dance—from Monte Carlo to Paris, from Paris to Brussels, from Brussels to Spa."” “Great heavens! You are one of those detective people!” 4 “If I had been I should have found you sooner.” “And now that you Fkave found me, mon cher ami, it will do you no good. Possession is nine-tenths of the law. You would have to prove that my moon- stone was your moonstone. To do that you might have difficulty. And if it weve done, I am still a woman. I should find some way of evading the law.” “I don’t intend to appeal to the law. But I think, because vou are ‘still a wom- an,’ if it be against your principles to lend me the sphinx’s head, and you will not sell, that you will give it."” “I would make a big wager that noth- ’n‘:s you could say or do would induce “tn give up my fetich of my own free Wil “What would you wager—the moon- stone itself?” “Good heavens, what an idea!" “Yet it you are so sure of yourself, why not stake it?” ‘His. handsome eyes compelled hers. He was twenty-six and she was sixty; but he was a man, and—as she had said—she ‘was “still a woman.” 8o she laughed ex- Fugxma!h-mhlm‘-mmron with- n : “Yes, 1 will wager the moonstone itelf. If you are clever enough to make me give it to you, yvou shal! have it. But— do’you remember one of the tasks trat Venus set for Psyche?’—Low the great piles of mixed grain had to be sorted, each kind to itself, between sunrise and sunset. You have as hard a task, and there are no grateful ants to help you, “There are my own wits—and there's your sense of justice; your womanly sympathy.” No one had talked in this way to the lady of dyes and paints for many a long year; yet she listened, and laughed, and was not displeased; but she knew that she would never give up her tallsman. “And how do you propose to make use of iy sense of justice with your wits?” the Comtesse de Silbery deliberately asked. g “By telling you a story,” said Hope Newcome. “Is that all? An exciting one, 1 hope. or I shall remember that in half an hour it will be my usual,time for beginning a little game. “1 shall try to make you forget,” re- plied Newcome. “It is exciting enough— at least, it was to the actors. For it is a true story that I shall tell you. A story of treachery and murder.”” . “Oh!—you are sensational!” “Real life is sensational. There are true things stranger than any flction which people would dare to write. My story begins a long time ago, and I shou'd be afrald it miglit bore you at first were not my heroine one of the moat beautiful women who ever lived. Anc the love ele- ment of the romance comes in early.” “Are you the hero, my friend?"” “No. 1 am only a walking gentleman. But, tobegin, or you'll be impatient for the green baizg, Once upon a time there was a beautiful young actress, with whom every man who saw her feil in love. Her me was German, for her father was a German nobleman who had married an Englishwoman against the wish of his family; but she had been born and brought up in England, and, as her name was so foreign-sounding and so long. her admirers made her a diminutive out of her three initials. She was always called by them, and as she grew famous they grew famous too. She had the right to a title of her own if she had cared to use it, but she did not, and very -few peo- ple in England knew much about the German family from which she was de- scended. “When she was still quite a girl she had a very tempting offer to g0 to Ameriea and act, and the offer was ac- cepted. On the ship she met a younsg man on his way to California to make his fortune, or rather to improve it, for he had about ten thousand pounds which he had just inherited, and wanted to invest in some profitable way. He had had a dreadful misfortune, shooting a friend by accident, and though it was more the friend’s fault than his, and he had been acquitted of any blame except careless- ness, he could not bear his old life, and had determined to begin again in a new country. “There you have the hero and heroins on the stage together; for, of course, the young man fell in love with the actress, and for the first time in her life she found herself in love, too. He implored her to marry him and leave the stage, for he thought his £10,000 quite fortune enough to marry upon. But the girl loved the stage, and she had been extravagant and spent her money as fast as she had made it. Besides, she was under contract to the man who was her manager for two vears more, and was decidedly afrald of him. He had taught her all she knew about the stage, and fancied he had a right to order her private as well as pro- fessional life, since her parents were dead and she was alone in the world. This manager disapproved of actresses marry- ing while they were in the heyday of ycuth and success, for he belleved—as most managers do—that unmarried girls on the stage are more of a ‘draw’ than when they become matrons. “She had some one else to be afrald of, too, poor girl, though she did not iell that to her lover. She knew he would laugh that fear to scorn. Only a man she had flirted with a little, because he was so horribly in earnest that he had been amusing—a Byronic sort of person with & handsome, fierce face and a deformed foot. When it came to his insisting on marrying her she had refused. and he had sworn to kill any man she ever dared to make her husband. “Somehow, the threats of this saturnine individual, who had followed her to Eng- land from Australia, where she played one year, had made a very strong impres- sion upon her mind, and that impression revived when she fell in love with some- body else. Once in a while he sent her a souvenir of his continued existence, and the last packet she had recelved from him—a year ago—had been posted from some place, the name being indistinguish- able, in Amerfeca. " “So my heroine refused my hero, and really thought she should be able to part with him; but when they reached New York and she found that she couldn't keep him dangling about her she relent- ed They were privately married, the se- cret not coming out at the earlliest until her contract with her manager expirad at the end of two years. After a week or s0 of stolen meetings she sent him away, as her love was Interfering with her pro- fessional work; but they didn't expect their separation to be for long, as the company of which she was the star was slowly going West. Her destination was to be California, and when she came ncar enough they would meet again. Mean- while they wrote to each other. My hero didn’t find any investment to suit him at first, so he put his money in a Califurnian bank, that it might be handy if he wanted it, and as there was a sensation about a newly disoovered gold region, he went out there and tried his luck. “But his luck was not good. He saw others round him doing well, while for- tune kept a closed hand for him. Months passed, and at last a letter told his wife that he had found exactly the pight thing. A man he had met—a splendid fellow, very clever, though eccentric—had bought land, and in prospecting had found gold. But he hadn't money enough to do any- thing with it, or he would have kept the secret to himself. As it was, he hadn't told a soul, except my hero, giving him the chance of a partnership in what would probably prove a tremendous for- tune for both. One was the owner of the land, the other would be the financier, and they would share and share alike. The fellow had shown my hero some won- derful specimens, and they were already chumming together. At the end of the letter my hero told his wife the name of his new friend. It was that of the man ‘who had loved and threatened her in Aus- tralia, and from whom she had heard of ear ago in America. Here was a development: and, as you can see, Comtesse, the villain of the plece, is on the stage. y “The poor girl was sick with forebod- ings. Her husband had a miniature of her which he always wore; and he had also a curfous jewel which she had given him—an heirloom of her family. It was a blue moonstone, cut in the shape of a sphinx's head, which had been given by an ancestor of her father's by an tian princess. She had had it mounted on a small screw, with her famous initials engraved on tiny flat plece of gold, and had made it a present to her husband before they parted, ‘for luck.” " “CLOVEN HOOF." “Oh!" exclaimed the Comtesse, “at last you have come to the moonstone.” She had laid the sphinx's head on the table, and had been toying with it as she listened. Hope Newcome's eyes and hers where upon it now, and the spirit-Hght im- prisoned within the stone sent up one of its elusive gleams, like an eye answering their glances. “If 1 believed in ghosts I should belleve that stone was haunted,” Newcome sald in an odd, low voice. For an Instant he had lost the thread of his narrative, but ok it up and went on again “My her~ knew that the man who had threateced her had seen the moon- stone in old days. Even without the in- ftials he would have recognized it as hers, for she had sa.. to him laughingly on the day he had seen it that she was keeping the tallsman as a wedding gift for her husband—if she ever had one This had been before any stormy scenes between them, but she belleved that he would not have forgotten. “Her only hope was that the name might be a mere colncidence, and she wrote asking her husband to describe his new friend. But the description, when it came. brought no comfort. The man looked rather like Byron, her husband answered. He had a deformed foot. and the miners around about called him in their rude slang ‘Cloven Hoof.” “Quickly she wrote again, telling the whole story, which she had kept from her husband before, warning him to be care- ful; whatever he did he must not let the other dream that they were married, or even knew each other, If it were not too late for that. And she begged that In any event the partnership might be dissolved. She had a presentiment or evil to come. '‘But many days passed, and she got no answer to her letter. She could not sleep at night for terrible dreams; and, at about this time, another great preplexity had come to her. She knew that she was to be a mother. “All her anxieties made her {lI; her tour had to be interrupted in the midst, and engagements canceled.. Then one night she had a dream more horrible than any which had tortured her before. Sne dreamt that she saw the man with the deformed foot digging a grave for the dead body of her husband, whom he had murdered, and hoped to hide awap forever, with all traces of the crime. “She told me afterward—for I heard this story from her own lips—that she must have been half mad. She hardly knew what she was doing until she found herself in the train, traveling alone from C'hicago—where she had been taken fll— on the way to California and the place where her husband was living with his “friend.” Without a word to any one she had stolen away in the early dawn. Had she confessed the truth to her manager. and told him what she wished to do, he would have tried to prevent her from go- ing to her husband, and, in her weak state of health, would probably have suc- ceeded. As it was, he would have fol- lowed, no doubt, had he guessed her des- tination; but she left a note which put him upon the wrong track., and mot only Gid she contrive to disappear, but, as a matter of fact, the mystery which sur- rcunded her disappearance was never cleared up. Circumstances which came afterward made her desire to remain be- hind the vell she herself had dropped, and it was never lifted. *““The nearest rallway town to the place my poor heroine wished to reach—we’ll call ft Caxton; it's very like the real name—was thirty miles away. When she got there the whole country was aflame with excitement, and hardly had she been five minutes In the small, rough hotel when she heard a strang story. “It seemed that two young men who Fad come out from the East to this part of California had mysteriously vanished within six or seven weeks. They were both well off, and had had a good deal of money sent to them by their friends, who, anxious at not hearing from them for a long time, caused Inquirfes to be made. .They were traced to the neighborhood of Caxton, but no further. Matters hal reached this stage when another man : .so éisappeared—the very man whom ‘ae poor girl had feared might murder her husband. Yet, judging from the tale she was told, her dream was a contradiction, for her husband had been arrested and was now held on suspicion of having mur- dered his partner. “He, her Ilover-husband, had been grievously wounded, lying uneonscious when he was found: but In a pocket of his coat a diary which coolly recounted in cipher easily read by experts the detalls of the two murders already accomplisher even jotting down as memorandum of the spot where the bodies of his victims (the young man who had tecently disap- peared) were buried. “Instantly the girl knew that there had been a terrible piot, but even she could not guess the whole. She had given In the office of the hotel a common name, calling herself ‘Mrs. Smith," or something of the sort, and her face, pale and hag- gard with {llness, anxiety and the fa- tigue of her long, hurried journey, was not as striking in its beauty as it had been before. “She sald that she was a distant rela- tive of the suspected murderer, who had been brought to Caxton only that morn- ing, to lie in the Infirmary attached to the town jall, awaliting his trial. She beg- ged for an interview with the prisoner, there was little difficulty In the 3 about granting such a request to a pretty woman she ob- tained her wish. “The poor fellow had been badly wounded, but he was conscious and was between joy and sorrow at the sight of his wife. They were not allowed to sce each other alone, but the thought that she had come to him and loved him, bes lieving him despite the evidence which others accepted almost without question, gave new strength and courage. Ha de- termined that when he had to stand his trial for murder he would make a brave fight for his life “But that very night an Infurfated mob who belleved him gullty and feared that he would not be hanged after all broke open the jall, and took the prisoner out to Iynch him. His wife heard the noise, and learned what was going on from the landlord's son, a reckless fellow who was for hurrying out to see the fun. She had brought with her on her journey several thousand dollars which she had saved, and she offered the young man half if he would save the prisoner and help him to escape. It was a big bribe for him, and by raising an alarm that the soldlers were coming from a military garrison not many miles away the trick was done. The mob was robbed of its vietim, the rescuer let l?a hd‘y know that her ‘rela- tive’ was safe, and In a few 4. her to join him. - gtbio “But the great excitement and exertion brought on a relapse, and for weeks her husband lay at death’s door. They lived in a rough cabin, with scarcely the nec- essaries of life, much less the delicacies needed by an Invalid; still, love and faith- ful nursing pulled him through to a pale semblance of returning health. And there at that little cabin their child was born— a son.” “You were the child!” exclaimed the Comtesse, all her affectations forgotten In her interest. “Yes, you have guessed it. I was the child. And before I had lived a vear father was dead—but not before he told the true story of the ending of that fatal partnership to my mother. - “His partner and he slept in the same room, and he could hear the other saying strange things in his sleep. His suspi- had belleved in, and he began to assoclate him with the mysterious disappearances which were so much talked of In the neighborhood. The man sald something Look Out for the Literary Gem, “The Gentleman from Indiana.”