The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, October 11, 1903, Page 3

“You are much better,” he said anx- She did not speak for & momont of two, and then murmured, “Who else saw him? Mother? Father? “You fainted, Miss Bunton. The bad air, and the crowd. Hers we are at homa Your mother will be here soon. He helped her into the house, placed ber in an easychair in the parior, bril- liantly lighted for the expected guests, and satd, “I'll call your maid, or—" | “No one, Go!" she said to the man ‘who had edmitted them, and who waited, see- ing her ill. She rose unsteadily and stood by & table, resting her hand on it, until the servant was gone. ‘I must -pal_k to you—alone—before the others come.” £he had dropped her cioak In the chalr, and looked very beautiful in rich evening dress, her face still pale, but her eyes aflame with such excitement that he feared for her reason. “I beg, Miss Bunton, that you'll let me call some woman to help youw. I think you should go to your room.” She raised her hand impatiently: “We have only & little time alone. That manl! I want him “Did one of those men hurt you? I'll e the polict So, no! That man! The man who was selling ses food Oh, my Godl Find him!" “He stole from you?t” She shook her head as if she could not epeek, her hands at her throat. “Miss Bunton, I am seriously alarmed must let me—" “Never mind me!” she Interrupted, eaking rapidly, now, but hoarsely. sten to me. I must know where that men is. Find him for me!” Worthington was shocked. He could belleve that the girl was distraught; considered if it was not his duty to & servant, though she forbade him. Wil vou find him. Take me to him?* “That men,” he replied, speaking quiet- ly, “is a common fellow I've seen at times, as we saw him to-night. If he &id not hurt you, or try to steal from you, Miss ton, T shall not find him, for there can be no purpose in my doing r condition distresses me, and I wish vou would let me call your maid.” In his real concern his voice had grown Xt She had never heard that tone in it, and tears came into her eyes. Ehe gpoke more calmly in reply, but with an se earnestness. “Of course, you snderstand—I must make you un- I am not insane, as I see that you think I am. Mr. Worthington, it is not to have that man punished—I—I—he- teve me, I want to see that man—to know where he is. Is it not for you to know only that? Find him for me!” “Miss Bunton, I can’t do this for you. compelled to say that you can't asx of me. That low, ot be—" "1l tell you. T'Yl tell you the reasor She strode the length of the room, her returned and stood ing into his eyes as she r Worthington, they—I know— ted to make you marry- me—I know. stop me now. I'll tell yout 1 have not cared for me—you hated me, That poor man! do that. It is a small ser- A service I ca: t undertake, if at all, the kno! » can be nothing to you.” everything to me!” rthington’s mind was staggered. In- ad of the woman's starf ng his first impression that she raught, it began to dispel that be- here was the manner of truth vering from the shock that d and drawn her face, with wildness. She mistaken, but he no longer 1t her insane—and was startled the he gasped. My husband! We were married more than two years ago. They sent him away from me! Tricked him away! They told me he was dead. But I never belleved it I never belleved it!” and she struck her violently. it not probable that you are mis- rou saw him but a moment.” No, not mistaken!” she crled. “I ha recognized him in heaven or as T did there—positively; in an in- t! Oh, find him for me!” “Why is It not better that your father, rather than I, should do that for you?"’ “No, no, no! He would send him away again. He is accused—it is a wicked lle! Mr/ Worthington,” she added rapidly, as if a new thought had suggested to her why he hesitated to help her, “think as meanly of me as you like, but not that I under any circumstances would have wronged you by marrying you. Even if they had dragged you to consent to ask e to be your wife I should not have let u remain ignorant of who I am—what Ia Don't think that of me. Pity me— and help me. Oh, did you see his poor, scarred face! You are a man; I am not as en unmanly thing of you. Not a thing a brave man cannot do for a wom- an. Help me! “I will help you, he said, his blood rising In his face. “First, tell me, did he recognize you—it will prove that you can- not be mistaken—aid he recognize you?" “Yes!” she whispered, a wonderful change softening her face. “He knew me —because he smiled at me. DId you not see him smile? I tried to speak; to call out “Harry,” when he smiled at me, but my brain reeled, and before I could speak we had started.” Worthington was silent for a little, and then said, “I will bring you his address in half an hour,” and he started for the door. “Thank you,” she said, and she touched his hand, not offering hers. “But do not go—send. The others are coming. They would ask questions. Send. There is writ- ing material on the desk in the next room, there. You will keep my secret for the present?” “T will” Dalsy went to receive the guests, and Jack wrote this note, addressed to the police sergeant of his home precinct, whom he knew: " Sergeant: Please learn, and send to me by the bearer, the address of a theater district character, called In newspaper stogles ‘Smiling Harry.’ He is a peddler of sea food.” Jack addressed the note, gave it to his footman to deliver, and jolned the other guests at supper, loking so conscious of his secret that it was the general opinion at the supper table that he had devised his early return to the house with Dalsy, for the sentimental reason suggested by his happy bearing In the early part of the evening. A telephone message from Isaac Bunton explained his absence—an unex- meeting with some Western friends at the theater exit detained him. After supper, and in the confusion of gen- eral departure, his servant gave Jack a note. He glanced at it, saw that it con- tained an address, and.gave it, unnoticed by the rest, to Dalsy. XIX~THE SEA FOOD MAN'S RISE. Issac Bunton had seen the sea-food man just when Dalsy did, and he hed been nearly as much affected. For a mo- ment he did all but lose consclousness, and saw nothing of the glare of light and color, and the confusion of motion about him. - His first impuise, when he was con- sclous of any, was to seize Harry, but when he looked around him the police had roughly shoved the sea-food man out of the way of Mr. Worthington, and that gentleman was helping Daisy into the brougham. Bunton broke through the crowd, circled it, hurried from corner to corner, but the white-aproned peddier was nowhere to be seen. Harry, more afrald of the police than ever, since the experi- ence of the night before, when he had witnessed the assault on Howard Paxton, now cunningly concealed himself in the black shadow of a deep hallway, until the officers who had hustled him out of the crowd should have moved on. But a greater fear seized him there, a fear that dazed and shook hi he saw his old em- ployer—from whom he had stolen money— saw him searching for some one—for him. Harry had not seen Dalsy. Bunton, trembling and half stunned, wandered about the streets aimlessly for an hour before he thought to telephone to his wife an excuse for his absence from supper. Then, not daring to face her in- quiring eyes, the questions she would be sure to ask about his haggard looks, went toa hotel. But he did not sleep in the bed- room he hired, nor at all that night. His affairs were approaching a crisis in Wall Street: he would soon make or lose a for- tune and he had come to recognize, in the past few weeks, that the chances were much against him, The marriage of Daisy to young Worthington and the absorption of the Bunton mining propertyiby the Worthington interest, at Burton's own terms, meant his financial salvation. But Dalsy had seen and recognized her hus-' band in the sea-food man. She had fainted at the door of the carriage where the sea-food man stood. story; ended Isaac Bunton's hope of help by the marriage. More! Could he now undertake the desperate hazard of selling the land—with Harry Lawton alive? Cer- tainly not, unless he could buy Lawton off; make sure about the deed and destroy it if in existence! Would he do it? Could he do it? He asked the question a thou- sand times and for far into the night the only answer was, “If you do not—Ruin! Ruin of your fortune, hopes, ambitions, reputation!” Who was Howard Paxton that he was to be considered? Must he be given the property for which his father had paid what now would not be a month’'s income on its value? Had not Isaac Bunton done much for Dr. Paxton—secured him office, promoted his political designs at cost of time and money? Men had paid as much as five thousand dollars for an office no more desirable; and was Howard Paxton to realize from his father's loan—"I have a right to consider it only a loan,” he thought—was Howard to realize from that the wealth and position now all but se- cured by Isaac Bunton; only needing this land to be secured absolutely? So all through the night he juggled with consclence and took advice with the devil, Yet when morning came he was not de- termined—so he told another Isaac Bun- ton who once lived on a farm and scorned lying and falseness—not determined yet to rob. ‘But he would find Harry Lawton and learn if the deed had been kept all this time, and 1if lost, destroyed—why, then he would consider. He breakfasted early, for he was eager to have the police find Harry for him. He went down toward police headquar- ters, but it was so early he feared that a call at such an hour would suggest to the police more importance to his business than he wanted to appear. So he went to his office and forced himself to wait there for an hour. At headquarters he sent his card to the captain of defitlves and was at once conducted into the presence of that offictal. “Captain,” he sald, and though he tried to speak in a careless voice the Captain looked up sharply—and then looked away—"I want to be put into communication with a peddler of crabs and such like, I saw near one of the thea- ters last night.” “Chap with a smile—always smiling?"” the Cantain asked briskly. “Yes.” “Smooth face, white apron, basket cov- ered with a towel, cries his wares, ‘Sea food! Is that about the description?” “Precisely, as I remember." “Not much trouble about that,” the Cap- tain said, drawing a desk telephone to his lips. He asked the Information Bureau In the same bullding for a connection and it was made with surprising speed, and then he tele- phoned: “Sergeant, send a man out and locate Smiling Harry. Be lively; party is waiting here. You know the place, ch? Well, send a man around there to see if Harry is at home.” He shoved the instrument to the back of his desk and said to Mr. Bunton, “He lives only a block or two from the Twentleth Precinct station-house. I'll have word in a few minutes.” “As this matter is not quite in your line, Captain—that is, not criminal—I'm disposed to pay for any trouble,” Mr. Bunton said. “No trouble at all, sir,” the captain re- plied, smiling, and turned to a pile of papers. In less than a quarter of an hour there was a ring at the call bell, and when the captain caught the first word through the telephone he nodded to his caller, as if saying, “Here we are. Quick work, eh?” ) He did not speak a word through the instrument, but listened to what seemed to his caller a long report. Then he sald to Mr. Bunton, “The party you inquire for is not at home. I can give you his address; but I should teil you that it is not likely that you will find him.” “Why not?” Mr. Bunton asked, in & sudden fear the captain mentally noted. “Perhaps you can tell me that better than I can tell you. But I don't ask you to tell. It's not Harry’'s habit to leave his rooms before dark. But this morn- ing, a few minutes before the officer called, he left his rooms. As he reached the sidewalk a cab drove up, a stylishly dressed woman got out of it, called to Harry, who was nearly in a faint at see- ing her, they kissed each other, she nearly dragged him into the cab, and they drove off. The officer got the story quickly and easily from a woman named Bessle Day, living at the same address, and who was enough intérested to rush out of the house and run after the cab untl she dropped in a faint. I'm sorry to see that the story distresses you, Mr. Bunton, but I supposed you'd want to know it. I don't ask you to tell me what the case is, but if you care to do so, I'll do vhuBl 58 for you.” Isaac Bunton was staring at the speak- er, not half understanding what he sald after the words “a stylishly dressed wordan.” That told him too much! That" told the; THE EUNDAY CALL. . “What did you say, captain?” he asked, after the captain had been at work for five minutes on his reports. 2 “You needn't tell me anything, I was saying, unless you wantus’to take up the case. If you do, tell me enoligh for me to know what we're working on,” the captaintsald, . “The young woman—I- think—is my daughter. “Yes, sir.” “But—they are married.” “Is she of age?” “Oh, yes!” This information seemed to give the captain excuse to return to his reports, and he did so. Isasc Bunton wiped his forehead, looked out into the dismal street crowded with children of the tene- ments so young, so cold, so thin, so poorly fed, and so frequently under the wheels of p: ng teams that not one of them seemed destined to become of age, or to have any one at all concerned over that remote possibility. But nefther the scratching of the captain’s pen nor the shrill squeals of the children helped Mr. Bunton to think; and it was a long time betors he said slowly, “Yes, she Is of ege, and they were legally married. I may learn more when I go home; but I should like—if my wife doesn't know ‘where they are—to see that man. As soon: as possible. “I guess there'll:be no trouble to locate him, Mr. Bunton.’ Al"my men, and a great many patrolmen, know;him. He's easily. identified, anyway.” * “Thank you. Shall I call here?” “If it's convenient for you on yQur Way to your office. Or I'll report to you.” “Thank you. ¥ “You'll let me know if you hear any- thing—at home—that will help us." “I will, Captain. Thank you Isaac Bunton slowly left the office; ing years older than he had the night be- fore,-when he went to the theater party which he: hoped might end in a way to end;valso, his troubles. The - shrewd Captain of Polics .was wrong;. there was great difficulty n lo- cating the seafood man. Weeks went by, and no-trace of him was found by'those who searched. They lacked the right clew; they had no hint which would send them in search of a rapidly rising star in the comic opera world; a star polishing her brightness in the rough workshops of small towns, before flashing it on Broad- way; a newly discovered star named on the bills of the play, ‘‘Marguerite Boyn-1 The dapper little fellow who hov-: ton.” ered about her, in and out of the theaters, happy surely in this restoration to such bright and joyous surroundings—for he smiled always—he could have told if he would, of Smiling Harry, the seafood man. XX—CALEB BANNISTER ON THE TRAIL. Another man, more Important than Isaac Bunton, was seeking Harry Law- ton; a man whose appearance in the case Increased the interest of the captain of detectives measurably. This was Mr. Caleb Bannister, chief adviser of the Worthington interests, and a man in whose behalf the Captain had done much work; little of which was known to the public, and little of which appeared on the records of the Police Department. The entrance of Mr. Bannister into the case, which now greatly interested the Captain, came about through the fact that the lawyer had a son who was highly impulsive, and strongly emotional. The recovery of Howard Paxton w rapld; a few days of careful nursing and rest had him so much restored that the surgeon said he might do some writing, A little work, he sald, would do the pa= tient less harm than the worry over not working; and a few days more found Howard sitting at George Bannister's desk, hard at work, and delaying his departure from his friend’'s rooms only that he might not be seen by Grace with a bandaged head, and therefore Mave to glve explanations. whieh ‘would -oyverturn the pretty story Turnbull had.invented of a trip to stormy Cape €od. Howard had been informed’ of that story (but not of the remittance of - money), and read .up a little on. the topogra- phy of the Cape, and. ‘the aspects of Provincetown - In winter, that he might give verisimilitude to the accounts of his supposed journey. George Bannis- ter was an untiring nurse’and delighted in the rapld recovery,of his guest; but his stormy heart was in rebellion against the advice of Turnbull that mo.action be ta- ken to punish the thug in police uniform responsible for.Howard's injury. What troubled young Bannister's heart showed in his face, and on his visits home every member of the family saw at once that he was concealing something, which, they knew from experience, he would reveal sooner or later, “Father,” he sald, one evening, when he had contrived to be alone with him, have something to say to you.” “So I have seen, my boy. Is it money? Your allowance has accumulated for a year now. Don't let your pride bring you a fall.” “My pride and purse are all right,”” the youth answered, smiling. “I told you that 1 would prove myself capable of support- ing a wife, and I've done so.” “You have, my boy, and I'm proud of you, rather.. I dare say I'd be so wholly if I quite understood your means of live- lihood.” “You're making fun of me, dad.” “As I understand i; it seems to be a subject for fest. However, we'll be seri- ous. You know, of course, that it's not a question of your ability to make a liv- ing that stands between you and Gert- rude; it is Mrs. Marble's obstinate insis- tence upon—but you've heard all that. Now, I'll tell you something which may please you; a certain business point about which Mrs. Marble and I differed wiil soon be developed in a way which will convince even her that I was right In the matter of our difference and when she admits that, why, I suppose—eh George had jumped to his feet, kissed his father, rushed into the adjoining room nd surprised his mother and sister in the same way, tore back to his father, raised both hands aloft, and exclaimed, “Ger- trude! horizon of my hopes and happl- ness; angel of my heaven; casket of the jewels of my heart's soul; I love her. Now, dad, I'll tell you something that’s troubling me.' He told his father the whole story of Howard's misadventure and concluded, ‘And now what can we do to punish that hideous animal, that worse than brute, that savage beast unchained?"” ‘Meaning 7" ‘The policeman. “As to him,” Mr. Bannister replied in a manner George thought unsympathetic, “Turnbull's advice may be right. Per- haps we should only ventilate a matter very painful to Miss Paxton, without con- victing Howard's assailant. I will consult with the Commissioner, and if anything can be done, will do it. But let me ask you; what was the name, did you say, of that curious character Howard tried to protect?"” “Smiling Harry. p “You mentioned & full name in your “Did you get any notlen of why How- ard should go to his assistance? It was 2 rash thing to-do.” “Oh, let me see! replied, trying to remember. ““The foolish fellow said that he went to school with Howard, and he said something—harped on some- thing”"— “Well?* ‘About a—a"— “About a deed?” the lawyer asked, with such unusual -eagerness that bis, son looked at him in surprise, and answered, ‘Burely! ‘You're a mind' reader, father. That was it,” “And what 4id4 he say about a deed?” “Why, dad, I can't recall. I think he would have sald more—it was on our way to his rooms, where Howard was then— i T'd not threatened to throw him out of the carriage if he didn't stop his chatter.” The lawyer groaned. “I wish, my son, ¥you had some of your fatner's command of temper." “And listen to a half-witted rea-food man’s prattie?”’ “You'll learn more by listening than by talking.” Here a servant brought in the card of David Turnbull. “Admit him,” Mr. Ban- nister sald quickly. Well, Turnbull, how are my honest friends Carson and Faulkner?' he asked when the reporter entered. “Both of those honest gentlemen are prespering,” Turnbull sald graveiy. “And they are possessed by a great des.re that I should obtain your views on the pro- gress of the ironfcombine. It secms that the street is much disturbed in its own mind by the hitch in negotiations, and is torn by conflicting. rumors as to the cause.” “Dear me!" exclaimed the lawver. “I should be cruel, indeed, if { withheld any information that might ajlay the fever of the street. - What are the rumors?—that I may talk intelligently.” [ “For instance, that one f{saac Bunton; one of the Western plungers, is in a con- spiracy to hold up the interests you repre- sent and is giving you trouble.” “Isaac Bunton? Now, would he be the gentleman halling from White River?’ Mr. Bannister asked, as if not quite cer- tain who Isaac Bunton might be. “The same,” Turnbull answered. “Well, of course. if I have any infor- mation deeply affecting the Iaterests I represent I could not bear to withhold it from my honest frlends Carson and Faulkner, no matter how much it might injure my clients to disclose their plans.” “Of course not,” Turnbull said, bowing gravely. *I took the liberty o say as much when I was asked by your honest friends to Interview you. Seriously, Mr, Bannister, is there any laformation you care to make public, as =an authorized statement, or otherwise?* “There may be, Turnbull. Let me con- sider a little. In the meantime I must tell you how distressed I am to hear of our young friend Paxton's mishap.” “A bad business, sir. But by to-morrow I shall, with the surgeon’s permission, tell him the good news I wanted to tell him the night he was hurt.” ““That will hurry his cure, no doubt. By the way, have you spoken to him about the curious claim the man—what's his name: Harry Lawton—makes, that they were schoolfellows?” ot Lawton, Lambert. No. I asked Howard if he knew the fellow. He said that when he went to help him be thought he knew him, but that, . as a mat- ter of fact, the school acquaintance he thought he recognized in the sea-food man had been dead for a couple of years or more.” “Did Howard mention the name of the dead friend who looked so much like the sea-food man?’ “He did not; and the subject disturbed Howard so much that the surgeon for- bade us to mention it again.” “Of course it has occurred to your mind that the fact that the man, Lawton—" “Lambert, sir.” “To be sure, Lambert. The fact that he claims to be an old acquaintance of Howard's suggests that Howard may have been mistaken in supposing some one to be dead. Rather suggesis a mys- tery, eh?” h, the sea-food man will suggest you any kind of mystery you want. He raved to me about a deed In which Howard would be interested.” “Rather a droll fellow,” Mr. Bannister sald. “What of a deed? George men- tioned it, also.” “As I recall,”” Turnbull said, thought- “he sald that he had—no, he “What did you say, Turnbull?” the law- yer asked as the other hesitated. “Ah, yes! now I remember. He asked me—"' ““That s, Lawton asked?" “Lambert asked,” Turnbull continued, smiling at the other’s confusion as to the sea-food man’s name. ‘Lambert asked me—now, sfr, my reporter's brain is at work. I can recall any language that I've heard used, until I've written it down. Then it passes from my mind, as if my mind were a slate from which a pencilea record were erased.” “Very Interesting problem involved there. Very. Were you saying that—"" “That that poor fellow, Lambert, said to me, ‘I've got a paper with his father's name on it.' " “Meaning Howard's father?’ ““Yes, sir. Then he sald—Lambert sald— ‘Do you know a deed?. Does a man own a deed that was his father's, when his father is dead2’ He was in a frenzy of excitement and probably difl not know what he sald.” “Very likely,” Mr. Bannister sald, seem- ing to tire of the eccentricities of the sea- food man. “Can you give me anything to print?* Turnbull asked. “Pardon me,” the lawyer said, “'I'd near- 1y forgot the purpose of your vibit. Really there’s nothing to say at this time—at least as coming fronr me. But I don’t want your call to be without results. You might report that it's sald on good author- ity, but not mentioning me, that recent developments lead the interests which have been trying to secure certain mining lands in the iron ore country to believe that the title to the land involved Is faulty, and—but dress it up to suit your- self. You have always been clever about such things.” ‘hank you,” Turnbull said, rising to go. “And your honest friends Carson and Faulkner will thank you.” “Give them my compliments. I say, Turnbull, did you ever experiment in bleaching cele: for Christmas eating? No? You would enjoy the study of plant life, I should think. Good night. George, show Mr. Turnbull out and go out with him, if you disposed to take the air, for I have some work to do.” As the door shut on the young men the lawyer stepped briskly to the telephone and called up police headquarters. ““Wherever the captain of detectives is have him call at once at the residence of Caleb Bannister.” ‘“Certainly, sir. Then. he returned to lis chair and mused: ‘“Howard said he inistook the man to whose assistance he went for a »~man who has been dead more than two years. Harry Lawton was reported by Isaac Bunton, and Isaac Bunton alone, U have been killed more than two years ago, and on the day Harry Lawton left Bun- ton's office for the last time Dr. Paxton drew $5000 from a bank, and or that day he visited Bunton's office, as his memo- randum book shows; and on that day Bunton closed a deal in pigiron which we have found out he had been trying for several days to close. Harry Lawton, Harry Lambert. Um! A deed? Show the gentleman in,” this to the servant who brought the captain’s card. “They caught me by ’phone at the twelfth precinct and I drove right over here,” the captain sald. i “Hope I didn’t take you away from any captain,” the lawyer sald, shaking hands cordially with the de- tective and offering him a cigar as he motioned him to a seat. They had often conferred, these two men. “A matter of no importance at all, only 1t has riled my temper and I've been read- Ing the riot act to the plain clothes men of that precinct. Here I am, asked by a gentleman to locate a well-known char- acter, and I say it will be no trouble to do it, but I slip up. Why, if my ten-year- old boy had been sent out to locate Smil- ing Harry, the sea-food man, and didn’t do it in half an hour, I'd spank him; but these plain clothes men have been potter- ing around like a lot of—what's the mat- ter, governor?” They had talked together in low tones and with deep, concentrated Interest for half an hour, and then each sank back in his chalr and regarded the othdr thoughtfully through clouds of smoke from freshly lighted cigars. “And you say, governor,” the detective at last asked, with a perplexed manner, “that you cannot account for young Worthington's asking for Smiling Harry's address the very night before Bunton asks me to find the party.” “What I say .s that I am almost posi- tive that it had nothing to do with this suggestion of a deed. I can imagine a reason; he was at a theater party with the Buntons that night—my wife was of the party at my request—and the girl, Miss Bunton, may have seen her hus- band, Smiling Harry, on the street and asked Jack Worthington to find him for her.” ‘That sounds like mighty good reason- ing, governor.” “But of no importance as I can ses, as we already know that the fellow disap- peared the next morning with Miss Brun- ton—or his wife, Mrs, Harry Lawton, &s it seems safe to call her.” “Governor,” the captain sald, after a pause, “I guess the detectives cut there in White River are not a strictly first- class article.” “But we've had our men at work out there.” “They dldn’t work with all the infor- mation we have now. I'm feeling like a few days oft on sick leave—T'll take them in White River.” A week later the captain called on’ Mr. Bannister, and gave him the result of his visit to the old home of the Buntons and Paxtons. It did not seem to be very im- portant, only that the captain had found a man named Dan Mannix, formerly em- ployed by Isaac Bunton, who recalled tLat Harry Lawton, when he last left Bunton's office, had said to him, Man- nix, “I'm going to Dr. Paxton's house with a paper the doctor forgot.” Also the captain found the Paxtons’ servant girl, and she was sure that Harry Lawton had not called at the doctor's on the after- noon in question. She was sure, because the local police had questioned her about all of the callers at the house on that day—the day of his death—and if Lawton had been among them she would remem- ber it. But the present the captain received from Mr. Bannister for bringing this in- formation was not small or unimportant. “And now, captain,” the lawyer said, “we must locate the sea-food man.” “Oh, I'll take that matter into my own hand, governor. I've got Bessie Day lo- cated already—the fools had let her out of sight!” “‘Bessie Day?" “Yes, sir. A woman in the case. When there's a woman in the case, wise detec- tives don’t look for the man they want; they keep track of the woman.” “Ah, I see! Captain, I've often urged you to take up the study of plant life. You'd enjoy it. Good day to you.” XXII-THE CHASE BEGUN. Jack had at last secured Grace's defl- nite promise to marry him, and it was his duty to impart that news to Mr. Ban- nister. Mr. Worthington Sr. and his wife Had delayed their return; his health did not improve as much as was expected by the physiclan accompanying them, and a longer stay had Been made in Mediter- ranean ports. But now the return was definitely announced, and Jack went to the lawyer to tell him that the will could be changed as ordered. “We'll take a little time things to your father, first,” Mr. Ban- nister said with a faint smile. “Perhaps the fact that the young lady he wanted you to marry already had a husband may alter your fatheds views on the subject.” The young man‘started. He, certainly, had not revealed to Mr. Bannister, nor to any one, what he had learned from Daisy when she confessed to him that the sea- food man was her husband. Neither had he heard any gossip which led him to suppose that the marriage was generally known. He had heard in casual small talR"that Miss Bunton was on a visit to her grandfather in the West, but that statement was accompanied by an “am- biguous giving out,” or sign that it was not accepted as the simple and natural fact. Was the clever lawyer fishing? “I do not und¢rstand you,” he said to Mr. Bannister—and it was the truth, In one sense. “'I supposed that you know, from some- thing I learned, that Mr. Bunton's daugh- ter was married.” Jack, embarrassed, made no reply. “Understand,” the lawyer went on, “I'm not trying to learn whether it's a fact. I know that it is.” “Even if it is,” the young man sald, “it may not alter my fdther's views as to my disobedience. I refused to obey his com- mand, when there was no known reaso: it there be one now—why I should not ask the lady to be my wife. My refusal con- stituted and completed the offense. An existing husband would not clear me, un- der my fatBer’s process of reasoning.” “We'll see. I want to ask you a ques- tion, Jack.” “I'm attention, sir.” “Do you object to telling me why, one night several weeks ago, you secured from the police the address of a peddler known as the food man?"”’ “No objection other than that I am not at liberty to give my reason.” “May I ask another question?” “Fire away,” Jack said, smiling. “Was your reason in any way related to our efforts to secure Bunton's mining lands?" “Not In the remotest”—Jack lightly, and paused. “In no manner that 1 was or am aware of,” he centinued thoughtfully, “or can imagine now. “Well, my boy, I'll not bother you any ubject. to explain pleasanter—to you. So Miss Paxton has consented to make you happy? “She has, sir,” he replied, radiantly. “I hear a good deal of the Paxtons through my children. The young man has good pluck.” “Indeed he has. And she is as brave | as he is. I consider that if I have no other good fortune In life than to win her for a wife, I've had my share—more than I deserv The old lawyer smiled at the sager youngster, and sald, “It is a good thing for a woman to be so loved—and for a man to love so. Does the lady give you hope of an early marriage?* “She talks of years! She wants to stand by her brother until he's well enough established to marry and have & home of his own!™ - “And then—sooner or later—she will make you happy?" “She has promised. If it were not for their pride—" “Yes, I know,” Mr. Bannister inter- rupted, “a little hastily. “If it wers not for thelr pride the brother would not ob- ject to prosper by means of a rich brother-in-law. That wouldn't do. Not do at all! I like his pride.” “So do I—at the expense of a great deal of patience,” Jack laughed on his way of the outer room, but befors he reached the door a clerk entered with a telegram. Mr. Bannister glanced at the message, wrote the word “Yes” on a blank and told the clerk to hurry it off. “You will find the study of plant life,” he said to Jack, as he walked toward the outer door with him, “an aid to the un- derstanding of certain human abnormali- tles. Now I must be off for an engage- ment."” ¢ The telegram he had recelved read: “Bessie Day has bought a ticket for & train that leaves in an hour by the New York, New Haven and Hartford. Can you go with me?” XXIV-—-THB CHASE ENDED. Bessie Day had been shadowed by the police for many weeks, and when she went to the Grand Central station and bought a railway ticket, her shadow tele- phoned the fact to the captain of de- tectives. He hurried to the station learned that Bessie’s train would not leave for an hour, and notifled Mr. Ban- nister of the situation. It was in the middle of the afterno~n when the trainjreached Hartford, and Bessle started off briskly, followed by the captain and the lawyer. She went at once to the theater, spoke a word to a man in the box office, and passed In. The captain bought two tickets for the matinee performance going on, and they followed Bessle in. The chorus was on the stage, with some minor people, but Bessle watched the chorus only, for she and some others of the newly engag:d were there for that purpose. The cap- tain watched Bessfe. He seemed sur- prised. She had joined some other women and was talking over the work going on upon the stage, in a manner too profes- sional to suggest that she was there in search of Harry, or expected to see the woman who had stolen him from her. But when a little later Daisy came on the stage, Bessie started violently, and half rose from her seat. She sank back. and her companions questioned her, but she did not reply. “I think that's the party Bessie's been looking for,” the captain muttered, *“but she didn’t expect to find her here. Queer. If we get our man, it'll be by accidept. But it's always safe to follow the womhn in the case. If they don’t get the right trail themselves, the devil puts them onto it just for fun.” Then he said aloud to his companion, ce show, Governor. “Is it?" the lawyer sald dryly. “Who is that young person singing? che has quite a manner.” “That party,” the captain sald, looking at his programme, “unless I'm mistaken, is Mrs. Harry Lawton, alias Marguerite Boynton, formerly Miss Daisy Bunton.” Indeed? I'm not a judge of this form of art, but I hazard the opinion that she is possessed of a high degree of chic. Daisy heard this same judgment, dif- ferently expressed, as she left the stage at the fall of the final curtain. She was met In the wings by Harry and a bent, grizzled man in shirt sleeves. She smiled at her husband, pinched his cheek, and gave him to carry a light silk cloak she had worn in the act, and waited for h'm to throw over her shoulders a heavy wrap, for protection against draughts. Then she turned to the other man with a look of eager inquiry. He took both her hands, and said, “Well, Miss Boynton, you've put me out of a job. You'll not hear my cross old scolding voice again; anyway until the next piece.” “Oh, do you mean it!"” she exclaimed, with a beaming face. “I'm going back to town to-night,” he answered, smiling. “Your performance this afternoon was as good as I hoped to see it in six months. You're all right. If you don't knock Broadway silly, I miss my guess.” “You dear old dea she cried, drawing down his head and kissing him. Harry smiled his delight in the sceme. “If I make a hit on Broadway,” she continued, “there’'ll be a big diamond ring on that hand you've raised in caution to me so many times,” and she kissed him again. It was datk, and a raw, cold wind was blowing when they left the theater, and Mr. Bannister said to his companion, “T'll go to a hotel and wait developments. 1 feel disinclined to be present at your first interview with these young people.” The captain laughed. “That's the way with those who don’t have a professional interest in this business. They are keen to be in at the death, untl the game is in sight. But, governor, I'd rather have you along with me. If the land lays as I've figured it out we can clear the whole job up at the first shake out of the box." As he spoke he was edging the lawyer along, for Bessie Day was hurrying to- ward the stage door, and the captain, still alking to the lawyer, was keeping her in sight. “Perhaps you are right,” Mr. Bannister replied, moving with the detective, but so reluctantly that his companion smiled. At the door of the theater onme publie carriage stood, and Bessie easily learned from the driver that it was waiting to take M Boynton to her hotel, the ad- dress of which Bessle also learned. She walked toward it rapidly for a time, then ran, and then slowed her and con- tinued irresolutely. At last, within a block of the hotel, she stopped and waited until a carriage passed her and drove to the éntrance of the hotel. Then Bessle sud- denly started forward, with more deter- mination in her movement, and reached the hall entrance of the hotel just as Harry came from the office with letters, joined Daisy and ascended the stairway. Bessle followed them and the detective and lawyer followed her. The first couple went up but ons flight of stairs, turned and entered a private parlor, where a grate fire burned brightly, and a table was already set with the early, light “artist’s meal” which Dalsy took between performances. Harry lald aside his wife's cloak, hat and gloves, then glanced, with critical ap- at the cold fowl and salad and the