The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, April 26, 1903, Page 5

CALL. THE SUNDAY e under the red r happened to know far from the worked there h peculiar red d that he wouid go e & search. urred to 10t begun to fear lied to him about is property. Gold d reason to be- from a distance had seen it for the him into putting down was not yet too late nership. Hc went away, and ! ntage of his absence pay a v to the red trees. Close by there was a cave, and in a hole in the tave, under & great bank of sand and Sebris und not one body. but two. The skulis had been broken in behind with s heavy, sharp Instrument, ke moax the bodies had been huddled the hole dressed exactly as they had T lood-stained ciothes had not like their flesh. Probably r's courage had falled him g his victims' pockets, or it s0 certain the bodies not be discovered that he had not it necessary to do more than for (determined to be sure before em tise he had at the accy on he meant to make was well founded) my father searched the pockets of the dead men's cc s. It must ve been a grim task, but it was re- of letters from the surderer upon one of the bodles, proving beyond doubt that he had been the man to lure the younger stranger from the s dc Just such promises as t to my father had essor letters and thrust t of his ow a k to the house, e murderer with uble crime. But been a pre- y gone a short rn unexpectedly wares, kill him Afterward my my father's money from his bank by ; and this having been accomplished, t poner he was out of the way the better. No doubt the mur- derer meant this to be his last o e and intended in any ewv to fiy with the throwing suspicion on his latest father was walking back to the some one leaped at him from be- d, but he sprang aside in time to avoid he full force of the blow. He told my mother that somehow he felt no surprise et sighk of he lust of I ht to- for his Once my father got his enemy down, and panted out what he had learned; but the wriggled nself free, and r 1y father e knife, which ng the lungs. It ally resuited in his e he was unconscious his enemy which had ssly for the p knew t he bad wor . rer, nevertheless ch es- t was supposed thst my fath- len the body be- induced by he rs, w must have usively who was gulity, they peared—my father and mother en stolen by the sphynx and my were Iso missing, t to guess where the treacherous what his girl they nd the mur- absolute proof riitted the L e while he ist have proved of spirit, had he not 1 think that, in st have nown some e bat together. e my the mother lived hope—not ideally —that one day I nge their While I was 2 boy T was left in ce of her sorrows, and we lived W on the little money she had left, ignorar som But when T had grown to be & man she t for me one day (we had moved from Califomia t9 Colorado by this time), and T found Ler pale and quivering with pas- elonate excitement. She had made an as- tonishing discovery.” THE WINNING OF THE WAGER. “The moonstone sphinx!” broke in the Comtesse “No,” Hope Newcome answered, “the Jetters which my father had taken from the body of the murdered man. All those years she had kept the coat he had worn in jall and when he escaped, for it was stalned with his blood. And sometimes she took it out and wept over it, recall- ing the past The letters had not, after all, been stolen by the murderer. He could not even have seen them, for when my father thrust them deeply into his pocket they had been pushed down be- tween the coat and the lining, which was ripped—not torn, and somehow the open- ing and the letters had remained undis- covered till that day. “It was then that my mother told me the story and made me promise that T would give my whole life to tracking down the murderer if he still lived. “She believed that he would be found in BEngland under an assumed name, and that with the money he had stolen from his three victims he would have made himeelf rich. Long ago, when they had known each other in Australia, he had told her that his great ambition was to be & millionaire and spend his money In London—the ‘capital of the world,” he had called it. My mother was certain that he had realized his ambition, and now that I was armed with “he letters I ehould be zble even at th:. late day to bring him to justice—if I could find him. I was to know him by the description she gave, and above all by ais deformed foot, for whatever else was changed by time that could not change. And she was cer- tain also that he would have kept the ephinx’s head. “But to find him was the great task wd to do so I must live in the world of h people. I must get money énough to ive upon, so thet I should have my time to myself for the search. “When my mother told me this story of the past she was already an invalid. She would have no nurse but me, even had we been able to afford it. She suffered continually and could not be left alone for Icng, 50 that my ways of earning a living were precarious. A few months after she died I took the first steps toward keeping promise to her. I salled for England—a steerage passenger. Exactly what my life was after that adds no interest to my tale, but it bad its ups and downs, mostly downs, untll a fortunate whim of fate tossed into my hands what once would have seemed to be a great fortune. I made & queer bargaln, with a clause at the end of it which was left vague; but T was ready to do almost anything, not dishonorable, for money. "Only for one brief interval of madness did 1 lose sight of my object; but though I thought of nothing else, worked for nothing else, I never seemed to be nearer to my goal. Often I followed false clues, but they always led me back agaln to the starting-place, until one day I met a shabby fellow in the street who begged of me with an American accent. He was near the house of a rich man whom I know very well, and had been there hop- Ing to see the millionaire, whom he stated that he had known long ago: but as the maoster was abroad he was turned away Ly the servants, who refused to belleve in the alleged friendship. “I gave the fellow something, more be- cause he was an American than for any other reason, but a few words he care- lessly let drop interested me for another more selfish one. I stood him a dinner, with a little good wine. and he~poured out confidences. He had lived in one of the Western States, and had owned a lit- tle land thirty years ago, with several houses upon it. O of these houses was unlet, and had stoou empty for some time, when It began to have the reputation of being haunted. People in the neighbor- hood heard queer chattering noises at night, and were afraid to go near the But the owner was not afrald. He in and found a terrible wreck of »d there—a poor wretch with his e burnt with vitriol that it was more like & plece of raw meat than a fac and, stiil more horrible, he lacked a foot, which had been lately amputated, literally hacked off, as if by the hand of an amateur. “The sufferer was raving with fever, and almost dead. How long he had been there or how he came the owner of the house could not tell, but he was more than half starved and in his delirium sula str things—the strangest of all, that he had deliberately worked the evil upon “imself for motives untold. He was tendes and cared for as well as possible in thac lonely neighborhood, where there octor within thirty miles; and a constitution pulled him through, horribly igured and lame though he m be to the end of his days. en he was able to speak coherently he told a story of a fire in the nearest town, in which he had all but fost ht lite, saying that, as his twot war ~arly burnt off, he had himself cut bone and flesh away lest mortification should set in. After that he professed to have no recollection of anyth which happened; and also as he had plenty of money in a belt he wore next his skin the owner of the house was not too pressing in his curiosity. He was well pald for his care, d It was not until after his mysterious guest had vanished as unexpectedly as he had come that he found out there had teen no fire of importance in the town mentioned for many months ““Years passed on, and brought troubles to my American friend. He lost his money and had various mishaps, finally going out to South Africa. There he heard of the great miiionaire with the scarred face and hobbling limp. which his Int'mates whispered was caused by an artificial foot. The American tramped up country to find him, cnly just in time to see the man getting nto a traln at the railway station. But he rcognized the hideous face and was bitterly disap- pointed at losing the chance of claiming help as a reward for what he had done In the past “Somehow he managed, after a few months more, to get to England, and de- termined to make a good sum out of his former services, perhaps get a start in business. But he only arrived to find his quarry had slipped away agsin. You can imagine, Comtesse, that this story set me thinking. If a man had the fearful courage to disfigure himself In a way so horrible, so painful, it could only have been because he must choose be- tween losing his identity or his life. Such grim pluck, such Iron self-control might aimcst win admiration, were it not the desperation of a moral coward, ready to sacrifice all that makes existence precious for the sake of the bare chance of escap- ing death. eedl: to tell you that I have the American where I can put my hand upon him when I want him. When I had ar- ranged this 1 fpllowed the millionaire, with whom I had actually been on terms of friendship. feeling as if 1 had dreamed the months of intimacy with him, months which 1 had wasted in vain search, my eyes everywhere save on the one man who should have held them. “Fate had already strange tricks, but none stranger than that which put me on the track of the moonstone sphinx in the very moment of reaching the end of my journey. He had had It for years, and the clew seemed complete, but the moonstone was gone out of his possession for the first time. I cculd nefther hope to find it with him nor to cbtain it myself and confront him with it in the hour of his downfall, unless —" “Unless 1 give it back to you!"” ex- claimed the Comtesse. “Exactly. Or even lend it. What I want is to hear him claim it as his own.” Her answer was to snatch up the stone from the table and !mpuisively place it in Newcome's hand. “It is yours, as it has always been. You have won your wager #nd I pay my debt.” 3 THE PRICE SHE WAS TO PAY. Winifred Gray did not deceive herself. She knew what she was doing in going alone to the house of Lionel Macaire. She knew what his reputation was: she knew how, since she had shown the loathing she felt for him and his insuits, he had bullt up, stone by stone, his scheme of revenge. Sometimes a stone had fallen with the dull ring of fallure for him: but he had #et it up again with another piled upon it, and when she went to keep the ap- pointment at his house the shameful structure he had planned would be com- plete. Still, if she hesitated in telegraphing her reply to Dick's imploring letter, it was not for long. Poor, foolish Dick! He had been but & catspaw from the first, as she had warned him; yet she would not remind him now of that warning. She would eave him, and if she could not save herself when the time came she must dle. To those who did not know of the silent battle w=ged for 80 many months it would seem s small, almost an absurdly small, sacrifice to meke, that she should dine at the house of a man whom she disitked, when by doing so she could keep her brother from going to prison and spare her invalid mother a blow which might crush out her life . But Winifred knew when she made the promise that it meant far more than a dinner at a house where she would have preferred not to go. If Hope Newcome had been to her the man she had once thought him she wouid have hesitated longer before sacrificing her reputation to save her brother from prison. She would have belonged to her lover and would have had no right to put Dick before him. But the girl belleved that she had done forever with love and lovers. Since the only man to whom she bhad given her heart had been able to hide his baseness with seeming nobility, Winifred had lost faith in all men, and told herself that she hated every one. Ex- cept for her mother it mattered liltle enough what became of the rest of Ler spollt life, She did not sleep much before the night when she would be called upon to kecp ber promise. The thought of what she played me some . must do was like a waking nightmare. It was always before her, whether her eyes were closed or open. Her imagina- tion conjured up a hundred different mcthods by which Macaire might seek to entrap her, and the hours she should have slept were spent in striving to think how, while she kept her word to the letter, she might still contrive to thwart the uitl- mate designs which she suspected. Winifred did not tell her mother of the trouble which had befallen Dick nor of her promise to Macaire. If all were well Mrs. Gray never need know; if not, there war time enough for her to be made un- happy. As the girl went out every evening soon after 7 to keep her nightly engagement at the Salisbury, her mother would be- lleve that she was absent upon her usual errand. It would be necessary to say: I shall be later than usual”—for the dinner wae to be at 9—and Winifred hoped, after keeping her hateful bargain to the letter, to reach home before midnight. Only there was such terrible indefiriteness in her hope. She did not know what danger she might be going to meet at Macalr:'s house, and unless Dick were there she would have no one to protect her. At half-past 7 she left the dismal lodg- ing-house which was *“home” now. She had kissed her mother even more tender- Iy than was her wont and clung to the little, frall women yvearningly for a mo- ment. that was all, and Mrs. Gray sus- pected nothing. Winifred had made her promise not to sit up as she must be late, but the girl knew that her mother would not sleep until she was safely back again. “Safely back again!" How much there was in those simple words! What would be her thoughts when she returned to the dull little rooms, which appeared desir- able In her eyves to-night for the first time? What would the next five hours hold of fear and humiliation for her? Winifred had put on a very simple evening dress, which she covered with a long cloak even from her mother's eyes; for she was in the habit of walking to the Salisbury In a coat and short dark ekirt. Her “turn” was one of the first on the long programme, a position not considered desirable by the artistes, mince the nearer their names were to the mid- dle the more unm'stakable the hal mark of thelr importance, but on this particular night it was convenient for Winifred to finish early. By bhalf-past 8 she had sung her song and satisfied the audience with a couple of encores. There was just time to change her stage drese for the evening gown she had worn and drive to Park lane, and as the hour drew near the girl's heart grew cold as ice. She dared not be late, she dared not wish that some incident might delay or prevent her go- fng st Dick should be made to suffer. Si e dressed with speed. and at twenty mirutes to nine she was in a hansom on her way to Park lane. How sickeningly her pulses beat as the cab drove into the courtyard and stopped hefore the great brilifantly lighted house! Her knees trembled, and she almost fell as she stepped down to the pavement. e huge doors looked to her like the doors of a prison. If only Dick had written—if only she found Dick inside! But there had been no word from him save a few lines of thanks after recelving her telegram. She paid the cabman and then—slowly, in spite of herself—moved towards the door which she feared might open before her knock. The hansom was driving away; It was all that she could do not to call after it and tell the man to stop—she had changed her mind and would go back. As her eyes wistfully foillowed him a voice spoke almost in her ear: “Winnie! I've been waiting for you this last half hour.” “Dick!” she thankfully exclaimed. “Yes. We've only a minute to speak to- gether. I can’t go in: I'm not wanted in- side that house any more, and I don't want to be there, heaven knows, except for you. But I had to see you. Lucky for us your cab had rubber tires and didn’t make much nolse, or the door would be open now and you going in. I couldn’t have got a word. Look here, Winnie, I am beginning to be afrald you were right about Macaire. He certainly is a villain— bad enough for anything, and the more T've thought of it the more I belleve he did lay the trap to get us both to fall into it.” “I've never douoted that for an instant,” sald the girl. “Yet, ou're here, Winnie. I'm a brute to let you come, but I didn't see {t this way at first when I wrote begging vou to consent. And how could I go to prison? For mother's sake, how could I go? I was sure I should be on nand to look after you and see that you came to no harm, so I let things slide when I began to realize that Macaire meant worse mis- chief. But I've been turned from the house and told that if I tried to force my way In I should be pitched out by the footmen. I preténded to go, but I sneaked back here to walt for you, and give you a word of warning. 1 would say, don’t go in after all, no matter what happened to me—" You needn’t, Dick,” Winifred broke in. “Nothing that you tell me comes as a surprise. I shall go in and keep my word. It would not be true to suy I am not afraid of Lionel Macaire, for I am-—hor- ribly afraid. And I hate him and shudder at him. But I do belleve that I shall find protection from him.” “If ever a girl deserved such protection, it's you,” cried Dick. “But listen: I was golng to say that I'd tell you not to go in spite of everything If it weren't for Von Zellheim. He'll be here at Macaire's to-night. I know that.” “Baron von Zellheim?” repeated Wini- fred, bitterly, giving her lost lover the fulll title which he claimed. “What heip can his presence give me? It only makes it all a thousand times worse that he should =ee me here in the house of the man he was bribed to aid in hunting me down.” “Winifred, I swear to you that Von Zell- heim never did that,” Dick asserted. *You must trust him. He's true as steel.” “So you once said of his master,” re- torted the girl, stung to desperation. ““Oh, if this is all you have to tell me, let me go and get this horrible night over quickly—however it is to end.” Dick caught her arm and held her back when she would have fled up the three marble steps that led to the door of old green bronze. “You must hear me!” he ejaculated. “It was all my fault that you distrusted Von Zellheim. I'll stake my 1ife he'd have killed Macaire rather than be his friend if he'd guessed what a vil- lain he was. He didn't even know that you and Macaire were more than the merest acquaintances—I'd swear that. If you had seen him, half a dozen words of explanation would have made everything right. But you refused: he couldn't un- derstand why, or what he had done to offend you, and he was half mad. He's been a changed man since—older and graver in his ways. If I'd chosen I could- have brought a reconciliation about, but I didan't want Von Zeiflhelm to know what you thought of Macaire. If he did know, 1 was certain there'd be no end of a row, and I'd lose my chance as sec- retary. I couldn’t give that up. And I was 8o sure, you see, that you were mis- taken about Macaire.” “To keep your place you let me insult the man I loved!” crled Winifred. *“You let me break my heart: you spollt my life. Yet you are not ashamed to call on me to save you?" “For heaven's sake, Winnie, don't look at me, don’t speak to me like that! I am ashamed—I'm in the dust with shame. And I didn't dream you cared for Von Zellhefm except as a friend. If i mad—I hope I'd have been decent enough to do differently. But it's too late for that now. And I see I've rufned my- self with you. Do as you like. Don't go into the house. I'll run away—be oft somewhere, I don’t know where—and escape from Macaire’s anger when he finds that he's been tricked.” “No. I will go in—heaven help me!” said Winifred, with a breaking voice. “You will? Heaven bless vyou. then. But some time before long, I hope, Von Zellheim will be hare. He doesn't know that vou are to be in the house; but he wrote, sending me his address and I wired, telling him that he must come it he would save me from shame. Already he hag been helping me—and he will be here to-night without fail. I'm as sura of it as If T had his promise. You'il trust him now, Winnie, won't you?” “If T have accused him faisely he will never forgive me,” said the girl, hope- lessly. And then, without another word to her brother, she went up the steps and lifted the mailéd glove which formed a knocker. NERO'S DINNER PARTY. Instantly the doors flew open. Winifred saw a great hall, blazing with lights, which dazzied her eyes after the darl ness. A footman In purple and gold live showed her to a corridor branching off the main hall, and there-she was met by a mald, who took her into a room which at first glance seemed walled with mirrors Everywhere Winifred saw her own reflec- tion—a slim little figure in a plain, long grey cloak, l0oking strangely Incongruous against a background of such magnifi- cence, The maid helped to remove the cloak, and Winifred was thankful to see a col- lection of exquisite wraps belonging to other women. One of her tears had been either that she was to dine with Macalre alone, or that she would find herself the only woman among a crowd of men in the fust, reckicss set which Macaire w: iq to lead. Courage came b to sight of those dainty evening. wraps which suggested the inner heart of Paris. She left the mirrored dressing-room and gave herself again to a footman's guld- ance. Never had Winifred seen so mar- velous a house, but she was scarcely con- sclous of admiratlon or surprise. Her rerves were tensely keyed for what might Le coming. “What name?” inquired the big foot- man, with a velled giitter of impertinence under supercilious 1id: “Miss Winifred Gray,” the girl answered mechanically, and then wished that she had refused to glve any name at all. A door was thrown open and a chatter of volces suddenly buzzed in her ears. They were not sweet, gent'y modulated voices, but loud and vulgar in every note, though they were the accents of women. The air was heavy with the scent of lilies, almost deadly In their keen sweet- ness. - The room, which was all white and gold and palest pink, was decorated in the style of Louis Quaiorze, and Wini- fred remembered how she had heard that each room in Macaire's town house was furnished after the fashicn of a different nation and period. Before her mind had had time to receive any other definite impression save that there were a number of men and women in the room, the latter gorgevus ¥ dressed and blazing with diamonds, Macaire himself came fcrward, holding out his hand. “We've been waiting for you,” he said. “I'd begun to be afrald that you weren't coming after all.” And this =enténce he spoke with meaning. “I had promised, and I never break my word," answered Winifred, haughtily, trying in vain to avoid his hand which pounced upon and imprisoned hers like a hawk seizing a dove. “But you need not have waited for me. “What!” exclaimed Macaire. *Not walt for the guest of the evening? Per- haps you didn't realize that this little dinner _is being given in your honor? I've invited friends who have been es- pecially anxious to meet you ever since Jast December, when you were playing Mazeppa.” b ¢ EZ\'er did play Mazeppa.” Winifred answered him in a clear. distinct volce, that could be heard at the other end of the large room. “Didn’t you? Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought you did. But that is a detatl, fsn't it, since you're here to-night? And that our dinner may be no formal, coa- ventional affair, like those of ordinary so- clety, that doesn't know how to enjoy itself, 1 want to introduce you and my other friends, whove come especlally to meet you, to each other.” Still holding her hand so tightly that ghe could not wrench it away, Macaire led her further into the room, nearer to the group of men and women, who had stopped their conversation to listen and look at the newcomer. The men were already on their feet, but the women’' remained seated. Four or five painted faces under hair bleached golden or dyed to the sheen of copper stared up at her with bold, laughing eyes Winifred shrank back with a horrified catching of her breath. She was an in- nocent girl who had known little of the world until she began to earn her living on the stage, but Instinct rather than knowledge told her with one blinding flash of enlightenment what these women were whom Lionel Macaire had asked her to meet. Some of the men she had seen before, though not to one had she ever spoke There was a Frenchman with royal blood in his veins; there was a great city mag- nate; there was a young English Ear! who had lately been made bankrupt; there was a man better known on the racecourse than In drawing-rooms. A word from Macaire to the Frenchman brought him to be introduced to “‘the Miss Gray of whom he had so often heard. He bowed, with a broad compiiment, and looked at Winifred from head to foot as no man had ever looked at her before. “Dinner is served.” announced a foot- man. Macaire pulled Winifred's resisting hand under hts arm, and held it firmly as he made her walk by his side across the room. The girl was deadly pale, but she d!d not cry out, as Macaire's watchful eyes told that he half expected her to do. They reached the marble dining room, with its purple hangings, its pink granite pillars and blue-dom=d celling. Winifred's place was by Macaire's side, and she sank into the chair which & footman oftered her. She must drink her cup to the dregs_ or Macaire would say that she had not Kept to the bargain. Having gone through so much, she must endure to the end, or she might better never have come to this horrible house. She could only hope that she knew the worst now. And perhaps, she told herself, even this was better than to have been forced by her promise to dine with Macalre alone. “Why don’t you eat?” asked Macaire, when she had let several courses go by untasted. Y “I do not wish to.” she answered in a low tone, lost in the babel of hilarlous voices. *“Then T shall not consider that you have kept your word. To dine with a ‘man is not merely to sit at his table, but to eat his food and drink his wine. If you can’t bring yourself to do that in my house !"-.m freed from my haif of our bargain.” Desperately Winifred made a feint of eating lomathlng.!rom her plate, not even kn what ghe ate. bt nt‘ln better. Now drink ‘uu ‘wine. T insist, or you know the consequences. Surely it isn’t much to ask. I don't often have to urge my guests to touch the wine that comes from my cellars.” Champagne, In a jeweled Venetian glass, was sending up from its depths to the golden gleaming surface a stream of bubbles. Winifred raised her glass to her lips and drapk. As she did so her tor- tured eyes met Macaire's and the glint of satisfaction that darted from his. though he would have hidden ft, started her. She set down the glass quickiy. What had that look meant? Was he pleased that she had drunk his wine only because of his triumph in compelling her obedlence, or was there a more subtle reason? Her heart knocked against her side and her hands grew cold as her gaze traveled questioningly from one hard face to another. Was there one in this strange company who would sympathize or help her !f she went down on her knees to implore it? Bhe did not believe that there was one. And Baron von Zeliheim did not come. Fearful lest she had made a serious mistake., she watched her own feelings. Had she experfenced any different sensa- tlons, she asked herself, anxiousiy, since she had drunk those few sips of wine? At first she hoped that her excited fancy alone conjured up the imagined difference, but slowly she was obliged to acknowledge that she felt a slight gld- diness, a weakness of the limbs, of which she had not been conscious before. Her eyelids drooped and she lhifted them with an effort. There was a faint prickling in the palms of her hands and the soles of her feet. The beating of he#¥heart, which had been like the wild fluttering ot a bird against the bars of a cage, slowed to a heavy. measured throbbing at longer In- tervals, The shrill langhter of the women at the table sounded @ tallic, unreal, and far away. A mist r.v. between her and the faces to which a few minutes ago she had turned a vainly appealing gaze. THE EYE OF THE MOONSTONE How the dinner went on Winifred didn't know, for she was like one in a dream. Macalre had talked to her and forced an- swers at first, but now he let her alone, ‘well pleased, perhaps, with the progress of events. Some of the guests who had appeared to know each other well had ad- dressed a remark to her now and then, but when she scarcely replied they turned their attention elsewhere. “I've been drugsed—I've been drugged,” Winifred kept saying to herself, as if the repetition of the startling words must rouse her failing energles to some su- preme effort. But, though her mind struggled with the creeping lethargy, the body would not answer the call to arms. .As the champagne went round the laughter grew louder, the women bolder. Strange jests were made, such jests as Winifred had never been forced to hear even behind the scenes at the Sallsbury, nor did she hear them now. The words drummed upon her ears without convey- ing a meaning. All the voices seemed to join in a wild babble, Inarticulate as the voice of a river fed from many rushing brooks. Winifred was going to sleep, and so dulled were all her faculties that she no onger cared. Her head, with its’ crown of bright, waving halr—so different from tne arti- ficial structure of her neighbors'—nodd on the slender throat, llke a lily shake on its stem by the wind. Her lashes fe.l Ha, ha!” laughed Macaire. “‘See, our Miss Ingenue Is missing her beauty sleep She would have us belleve that she's in bed every night at ten.” “You've plied her with too much cham- pagne, oh, generous host!" cried one of the women. “Perhaps,” confessed Macaire, while everybody laughed. “The child must not have any more to-night. N meet her | warrant she'il Go better. a month she'll hold her own with any f you.” “To the next meeting!” Glasses were lified. and much champagne was drunk. “Peor little dear, she doesn't look very comfortable!” giggled a-lady in many diamonds and a small ailowance of bodice “She won't be able to sit up with us bigger children for desser: “T'll give Instructions fcr her to be taken away where she can have her nap ‘out In peace,” said Macaire, his eyes vie- fously bright. He nodded to a footman, who moved forward respectfuily to take his master's order; and at this instant, without being announced, Hope Newcome came into the room. “Von Zellheim!? exclaimed one of the men. Winifred's closing eyes opened wide for the fraction of a second. They were no longer bright, but dull and curiously glasey. ‘‘Help!” she whispered rather than spoke, straining to make her voice heard as cne tries to scréam and break the cold spell of a nightmare. Then her head fell forward again and she would have slipped from her chair to the floor had not Macaire caught her. It was the movement, not the scarcely aundible whisper, which drew Hope New- come's eyes to the drooping figure in white; and, seeing the lovely, pallid face o+ Winitred Gray, he sprang toward her, his eyes blazing incredulous horror at her presence here. “This is a pleasant surprise, my dear Von Zellhelm,” sald Macaire, his ex- pression somewhat belying his words. “Your pardon for one moment while I El to Miss Gray's comfort and a piace shall be made for you. Our young friend's head is not as strong as it might be, and she has been overcome by a lit- tle more champagne that she’s been ac- customed to taking.” For an instant Hope Newcome had lost self-control; but in the short interval oe- cupied by the millionaire’s excuses he had regained it. He knew Winifred Gray. and he knew Macaire-—-at last! Never in his life of viclssitudes, peghaps, had he recaived such a shock as the sight of Winlfred Gray at Macaire’'s house, din- ing in this company. had given; but, though he was absolutely ignorant of the circumetances which had led up to her coming, it took him no longer than a second to divine that she was the victim of some plot—pessibly not the first web which this cunning spider had spun for her undoing. And at the end of that one second he had made up his mind how to act. Whatever has caused Miss Gray's in- dieposition it is certainly not due to cham- pagne,’ he said in a loud, cold voice, to be heard by every one. “I know her well enough to vouch for that, since she is to be my wife. And as she is to be my wife, it is my place to take care of her. I will relieve you cf the trouble, Mr. Macare."” As he spoke he stepped forward as If to remove her from Macaire's arms. It was the first time that the million- " cire had touched Winifred Gray more fa- miljarly then to take her hand. The fragrance of her yellow-brown hair was intoxicatingly sweet in his nostrils; he had been half drunk with the joy of suc- cess at last, and with an oath he drew ‘back from the younger man who had just announced himself his rival. There was no reason for holding his fierce temper in, so far as he knew, and he loosed it sav- agely. “How dare you?” he demanded. nothing to you, you liar. She’ or she wouldn’t be nere to-night.”” Newcome did not answer, but, grasping Macaire's wrist with one of Ms brown, ng hands he twisted it back so that the ‘cracked In its socket, and the “She'a mine, millionaire gave a shrill, irrepressible squeal of pain. Quietly Newcome took Winifred from him, holding her against his shoulder, and defying Macalre with the cold men- ace of his dark eyes. Always hideous, the red, glazing face of Nero 1I was appalling In his rage. At sight of It the women sprang up from the table, pale under their paint. Glasses were overturned and eves that had gazed on many a strange scene opened wide to behold something of more than common interest. “You dog: you common cur that I took from the gutte; shrieked Macaire. “You puppet that I hired with my money to dance at my bidding! You thought you might presume on your brute strength to come here and Insult me In my own house, 1 suppose, since our contract wasn't out yet. But it's got hardly a month more to run—" ““We'll call it canceled now,” sald Hope Newcome. “You and I will have no more contracts In future.” “Every one here shall know who you are,” Macaire went on, furiously. “All the world that I've been laughing at shall know to-morrow, and where will you be then? Why, kicked back to your kennel by the women who've made you their pet. “My kennel's rather a nice one,” sald Newcome, “Schioss Zellhelm, on the Rhine. It is no longer a ruin. I have had it restored’in these last few months. I hope to take Miss Gray there; only she will then be the Baroness von Zellhaim, and any man who has told lles about her will have been horsewhipped Into publicly apologizing.” “‘Schloss Zellheim!" sneered Macaire. “The money you've saved out of what I flung to you wouldn’t have bought 1t.”" “The ruined castle has been the prop- erty of my family for many years, though they were absentees, and too poor to restore it. That has been my privi- lege " Pshaw!" laughed Macaire. hatefully. “Thzse friends will know how much to beileve of that, and what to tell in their clubs to-morrow when [ say that you're no more right to the name of Von Zell- heim than 1 have. I gave you the name, to make sport for myself. and sport I've had. but there's better to come. For six months your pay for breaking Joey Nash and b ing at my beck ard call was to con- tinue—gcod pay—a thousand pounds & month, to say nothing of the sum you got down to start with—"" “It's trebled now,” cut in Newcome coolly. “You gave me such excellent advice as to speculation. T took it and succeeded beyord my best hopes. That's the one thing for which I have to thank you.”/ “There speaks vour dog's Ingratitude. But many a servant’s got rich in his mas- ter's service, and you're my servant—or you're bound by your own word to be— till the end of six months, and every- body shall know it: everybody shall hear the great joke now and laugh with me. You bound yourself. in your gold-greed, to do anything I exacted of you when the six months should be up. What I meant to make you was a groom in my stables, a place you're well fitted for, and you can't refuse it without breaking your piedge, the same as abtaining £8000 on false pretenses. How will Miss Gray fancy beirg the wife of my groom? We must ask her up when she wakes from her fainting fit.” “Let me first ask you a question,” sald Newcome. “Whose property is this?" He supported Winifred's slender, white- ciad body with his left arm, and pressed it close against his heart. With his right hand he held up a moonstone, cut in the shape of a sphinx’s head. As he ralsed it aloft the light touched the stone, and struck out a strange blue gleam, like an eye that peered through a cloud, search- ing, searching for something that sooner or Tater it would find. “That is mine!” said Macaire, and sprang toward it. But Newcome lifted the stone beyond his reach. “You are sure it is yours?” again. . “I've had it for years, till it was stolen from me. Unless you want to be called ‘thief’ as well as dog and llar, you will hand it.back.” “You have had it for years? echoed. “I thought so. It w: stole it from Harold Norman. For once in his life Lionel Macaire visi- bly quailed. His hideous face seemed Iit- erally to wither, his body to shrink, but in a2 moment he was himself again, all traces of emotion gone, save for a quiver- ing of the nostrils, a slight twitching of the marred evelids. “I don't know the name,” he said. Hope Newcome turned a sudden blaze of hatred and contempt upon him. “You know it as well as that of Leland Mar- mion, the Californian murderer!” he flung at the millionaire. he asked B Speechless, Macaire stared at him, with mouth falling open, jaw dropped down. Then, his voice coming back, he gasped: *“You scoundrel!” “I am Harold Norman's son,” answered the man who had called himself Hope Newcome. *‘His son and the son of F. E. Z. 1am Harold Norman's namesake, and 1 have lived for this night, lived to be his avenger.” “Great heaven: he heard Macaire mutter, beneath his panting breath. Even for' that iron self-control, the stubborn courage that could inflict horrible self- mutiiation, for bare life's sake, and safe- ty’'s sake, was broken down. But again it was only for a moment. “I wonder if you know what you are talking about?” Macaire sneered, his voice coming back to steadiness. “I only know that you seem to be threatening. Take care or I will have you arrested.” Hope Newcome—or Harold Norman— laughed. “Try it,” he said. *“You wiil never have so good a chance. The police are outside now, for they have seen cer- tain letters found long ago, but not too long for justice, in the pocket of a dead man—one of those whom you, Leland Marmion, murdered.” As that last word leaped like a sword from the accuser's lips, a strange thing happened. The women at the table cried out in terror, and In the same Instant ut- ter darkness fell. The brilliant lights that had made vivid the blue and gold and purple and marble-white vanished like a burst bubble, and the room was black as a plaguc. The screams and the sudden darkness came together. The quickest eye and ear couid not have sworn with certainty which was first. Some one had turned off the electric lights—how, nobody knew. There w: soft fluttering and rustling of women's dresses, hysterical exclamations, and the crash of breaking dishes and falling chairs as people pushed away from the table, blinded and confused by the black darkness. Only Hope Newcome did not move. Even if he lost his revenge he would not put Winifred away to recover the chance slipping from him. She was waking from her stupor, and clung to him, murmusing the name by which she had known him. And, stooping closer, he thought he heard her whispe! “Partner, partner, if you could forgive!” THE MILLS OF THE GODS. Never for one moment had Lionel Ma- caire been unprepared for the possibllity of the blow which had fallen to-night.. He had not expected it: he had told himself a thousand times that it would never fall upon him—that it not fall. Still, he loved life, and he had worked hard to make it worth living. He had shed blood to make it worth living. and he did not mean that Nemesis should strike him from behind. The millionaire had not a house nor & room of his in one of his houses where all electric lights could not be turned off by means of a single button. His steam vacht; waiting his orders in the harbor, was always ready to start at ten min- utes’ notice. Once he would have to de- pend upon horses for a dash to the sea, but now he had the means by which he could outdistance the fastest horse on earth. In his stables stood a racing Daimler autocar of fifty horsepower, though Iits seating capacity was but for two persons. « Like the yacht, it was kept ready by its engineer for an instant start, filled with petrol and water, its machinery oiled. To-night, as he switched off the lights from the dining-room, he flung himself at a swinging door behind the purple dra- pery—a door by which the servants en- tered through a passage leading to the huge kitchens. The door moved noiseless. ly, and Macaire's artificlal foot lmped over the thick felt with which the floor was covered faster than it had ever done before. Half way down the passage was a door which opened near the stables. A mo- ment, and Macaire was in the room whera the motor car was kept, for the key was on his chair, and only the engineer, ab- sent now, had a duplicate. Macaire sprang to the car and lit the electric lamps, his heart pounding in his ear, for the great crisis had come, and he was working for life or death. True, Hope Newcome might have lled: he might suspect, yet not have the proofs he hinted at. But it would not do to risk his having led. If Macaire could reach Gravesend, where the Diavola lay (he hoped that few knew she was thare). before the police of London had warned the police of Gravesend by telegraph there was a chance for him still. He would trust the yacht to show her heels to anything afloat. The seas were wide. There were countries where he could hide himself; and there was money on boagd the Diavola. = In two minutes the car was ready to start, the stable doors flung opgn. By this time those whom he had left groping in the dark would have light again. The police would be in if the dead man’'s son had told the truth—but they were not here yet. He ran limping from the opening doors back to the car and climbed on board. Then, with a rush and throbbing of fits machinery the Daimler tore into the street. Let them come now if they could. What did be care? Who could catch him now?” What was there fast enough. to follow even so far away as to guess at his des- tination? Out In the street he put on the fastest spead, recking nothing of the law, for none could stop him. With its two electric lamps like great white dragon eyes In the night, the Daim- ler tore through the streets at the rate of thirty miles &n hour. People flung themselves wildly out of the way, shriek- ing for the police, shouting that here was a madman on a motor car; cabmen lashed their snorting horses up side streets to avold destruction or drove in desperation on the pavement, the wheels of their vehicles here and there smashing a win- dow, adding the keen, high treble of crashing glass to the vproar. Policemen yelled to the hatless man bent forward over the steering gear, bid- ding him stop on pain of desperate penal- tles, but Macaire only laughed. Rain had begun to fall, and the wind and water, spraying against his hot face, cooled his brain, giving him a sense of power and exhilaration. He felt like a Juggernuut and longed for victims for the wheels of his rushing car, which flew faster tion the flying ‘minutes, bearing him out of danger to a new life. He did not think of all that he had left behind, all that he must sacrifice, for that way madness lay. Yet Winifred's sweet girlish face would rise before him. He would not have had this thing happen un- til he had crushed the butterfly under his heel and broken its wing so that it must lie forever in the dust. And Hope New- come, the sofi of the man he had done to death: he wodld fain have sent him after nis father. “To think that she should have been Harold Norman's wife, and I never guessed it! Fool—fool!” he ralled madly against himseif. He had passed the suburbs now. Lon- don and London’s lights would soon be left behind. He would do the trick. The Dalmger and his Diavola would save him et. ysuddeuly it was as if a figure rose out of the earth before him, flitting in front of the car as it rushed on along a white ribbon of winding road. It was radiant with a strange, pfle radiance, and out of a faint golden mist gleamed a face—the ftace of F. E. Z. “I'm mad!" he cried. “I'm mad. not there—it's a delusion.” Yet the eves looked at him from the pale, lovely face that he had seen in countless dreams, that he had fancied he saw duplicated In Winifred Gray’'s, and he could not run it down, In another instant the face would have been under his wheels, crushed out of all semblance of beauty. With a jerk of the steering lever he swerved the car to the right. The movement was too sudden for the tremendous speed at which the car was going, and with a crash the Dalmler leaped from theToad into the ditch at the side, turning over as it fell. Macaire was flung off, and with a grinding, rending pain in his leg, fell into uncomnsciousness. Then came dreams, a changing kaleldo- scope of dreams, with flashing lights and the booming of cannon. He was dragged back by sheer physical agony to con- sclousness again. At first he hoped, well nigh prayed, that this waking was the false waking of a dream. He dreamed—or was it true? —that the car had fallen on him, pinning him underneath writhing and helpless, in an agony of pain. He dreamed—or was it real?—that the whole sky was bright with the weird, pale light from a plllar of flame that shot far up into the purple night, up, stralght up, higher than the treetops. The lamps had ignited the petrol with the falling of the car and the whole fab- ric was on fire. Oh, the pain, the hor- ror! Yes, it was true, and he must dle here, lik rat in a trap. In his agony faces crowded around him —faces that he had struck life out of long, long ago. For what they had suf- fered, for what he had made many suffer, was he paying now. Heavens_ how long It lasted! How long it took a man to dle! Perhaps even now it was a dream. It was too terrible to be true. p O TGS & DRI o Yet the papers said next day that it had been true: and the world that had known Macaire was shocked. No one grieved for the man who was gone. But a girl, hiding her face against her lover's arm, shuddered, sobbing that in spite of all she would have saved him from so terrible an ending if she had had the er. p‘z-"'n:e mills of the gods, my darling,” answered the man who loved her, and ‘would never let her go far from him again, “are slow In their grinding, but they grind exceeding small.” (The End) It's BOOTH TARKINGTON'S Great Novel Begins in NEXT SUNDAY'S CALL.