The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, March 27, 1904, Page 5

THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. strangest eyes,” he said, Do you know what they're ther used to say they were " she answered, feeling un- rop them and yet uneasy under inching gaze. “They're\the color of sherry—exactly the same.” “I won’t let you see them any more f that’s the best you can say of them,” she d, dropping them. “I could say they were the color of beer,” he answered, “but I thought sherry sounded better. “Beer!” she exclaimed, averting not ce. “That's an , then, I'll only say in the sim- plest way what I think. I'm not the kind of man who makes fine speeches— they're the most beautiful eyes in the world. “That’'s the worst of all,” she an- swered, extremely confused and not made more comfortable by the thought hat had brought it on hersel et’'s leave my eyes ott of the ques- All right, I'll not speak of them again. But I'll want to see them now and then.” He saw her color mounting, and the joy of her close proximity, lof ing arm in arm up the sordid str he laughed again in his happiness & said: “When a person owns something that's rare and beautiful he oughtn’t to be mean about it.” “I suppose not,” said the owner of the rare and beautiful possessions, keeping them sternly out of sight. He continued to look ardently at not conscious of what he was do- ing, his step growing slower and slower. t's a long length Yes,” she assented. you're going so slowly?” “Are we going so slowly?” he asked, nd if to demonstrate how slow had been their progress, they both came to a stop like a piece of run-down ma- hinery. They ques in climb,” he said at “Is that why other for a hen burst into Itaneous pe laughter. ie of the last and daintiest charms pature can give a woman is a laugh. It suggests unexplored of tenderness and sweetness, for joy and pa usical laugh tells hard, without juice, magination, mystery and Like her mother before her possessed this charm in its est form. The ripple of sound flowed from her lips was music, 3 cast a spell over the man at whose side she stood, as Lucy's laugh v yvears before had cast one over Moreau never looked at sim n. 1 it heard you laugh before,” i in delight. “What can I say make you do it again?” You didn't say anything that me,” said Mariposa. ‘‘So I suppose e best way is for you to be silent.” B: took hef advice and sur- eyed her mutely with dancing eyes. For a moment her lips, puckered into tremulous pout, twitched with the remonitory symptoms of a second burst. But she controlled them, ved by some perverse Instinct of while the laughter welled n the eves that were fixed on him. I see I'll have to make a joke,” he said, “and I can’t think of an But it mightn't work a second time. I might take it quite solemnly. A sense of humor’'s a very capricious I think the lady who's got it is even more 50,” he sald. And then once again they laughed in comcert, foolishly and gayly and without knowing why. They had gained the top of the hill, 2nd the blaze of red that swept across the west shone on their faces. They were within a few minutes’ walk of the house now and they continued, arm in arm, as was the custom of the day, and at the same loitering gait. “Didn’t you tell me your people ame originally from Eldorado County, somewhere up near Hang- town?” he asked. “I've just been up hat way, and if I'd known the place I might have stopped there.” “Oh, you never could have found said Mariposs hastily. “It was only a cabin miles back in the foot- hills. My mother often told me of it —just a cabin by a stream. It has robebly disappesred mow. My fath- r and mother met and were married here among the mines, and—and—I vas born there,” she ended, stammer- ngly, hating the lies upon which her outhtul traditions had been buiit. “If I'd known you had been born here I'd have gone on & pligrimage to nd that cabin if it had taken a nonth.” “But I tell you it cen’t be standing et. I'm 24 years old—" she suddenly ealized that this too, was part of the secessary web of misstatement in vhich she was caught. The eolor leepened on her face into a conscious jush. She dropped her eyes, then aising them to his with a curious de- iance, said: . “No—that's & mistake. I'm—T nore than that, I'm 25, nearly 26. Barron, who saw nothing in the quivocation but a girl's foolish de- sire to understate her age, burst into ielighted laughter, and pressing the nand on his arm against his side, said: -Why, I always thought you were < older than that—30 to 35 at ast. » ‘:nd he looked with teasing eyes nto her face. But this time Mariposa 1id not even smile. The joy had sud- denly gone out of her, and she walked on in silence, her head drooped, seem- ing in some mysterious way to have grown suddenly anxious and preoc- cupied. “There's the house,” she said at iength. “I was getting tired.” “There's a light in the parlor,” said Barron, as he opened the gate. “What can be the matter? Has Benito killed andma, or is there a party?” heir doubts on th point were soon set at rest. Their approaching footsteps evidently were heard by a listening ear hin, for the hall door opened and Benito appeared in the aperture. There’'s a man you in the parl he announced to Mariposa. Inside the hallway the door on the left that led Mrs. Garcia's apart- ments opened and the young woman thrust out her head, and said in a hiss- ing whisper: “There’s you in the to see man waiting for Miss Moreau.” Miguel imparted mat om the top and the Chinaman appearéd tchen door and crieg from laconic dryness pe- of > . parlor.” Mariposa stood looking from one to the other with the d evebrows of inquiring 3 The only who had visitors in the Garcia house was Pierpont, 1 they did not come at such fashionably late hours. “He's thin, consumpted-looking young m with eye-glasses,” said Mrs. Garc curling round the &oor the better to project the hissing whis- per she emploved, “and he said he'd e ou came in."” turned toward the parlor leaving the family, with Barron, on the stairs, and the Chinaman, peer- ing from the kitchen regions, watch- with tense srest, as if they d they would never see astonishm Two of the gases in the old chande- were lit and cast a sickly light over the large room, which had the close, musty smell of an unaired apartment. The last relics of Senora Garcia's grandeur were congregated here-—bronzes that once had cost large sums of money, a gilt console that had been grought from a rifled French chateau round the Horn in a s g ship, a buhl cabinet with its delicate silvery inlaying gleaming in the half-light, and two huge Japanese vases, with blue and white dragons crawling round their necks, flahking the fireplace. On the edge of a chair, just under the chandelier, sat a young man. He had his hat in his hand, and his head drooped so that the light fell smooth- ly on the crown of blonde hair. He looked small and meager in the sur- rounding folds of a very large and loose ulster. As the sound of the zp- proaching step caught his ear he started and looked up, with the nar- rowed eyes of the near-sighted, and then jumped to his feet. “Miss Moreau?” he said inquiringly, and extended a long, thin hand which, closing on hers, felt to her warm, soft grasp lltke a bunch of chilled sticks. She had not the slightest idea who he was, and looking at him under the wan light, saw he was some one from- that world of wealth with which she had so few affiliations. Something about him—the coldness of his hand, an in- describable trepidation of manner— suggested to her that he was exceed- ingly ill at ease. She looked at him wonderingly, and said: “Won't you sit down?” He sat at her bidding on the chair he had risen from, subsiding into the small, shrunken figure in the middle of enveloping folds of overcoat. One hand hung down between his kneés holding his hat. He looked at Mari- posa and then looked down at the hat. “Cold afternoon, isn’t it?” he said. “Very cold,” she responded, “but I like it. I hope you haven’'t been wait- ing long.” “Not very,” ler he looked up at her, blinking near-sightedly through the glasses; “I don’t know whether you know what my name is, Miss Moreau? It's Shackleton—Winslow Shackleton. I forgot my card. Mariposa- felt a lightning-like change came over her face, in which there was a sudden stiffening of her features into something hard and re- pellent. To Win, at that moment, she looked very, like *his father. “Oh!” she said, hearing her voice drop at the end of the interjection with a note of vague disapproval and uneasiness. “I've seen you,” continued Win, “once at The Trumpet office, when you were there with Mrs. Willers. I don’t think you saw me. I was back in the corner, near the table where Jack— that's the boy—sits.” Mariposa murmured: “No, I aidn't see you.” She hardly knew what he said or what she responded. What did this mean? What was going to happen now? “You must excuse my coming this way, without an introduction or any- but as you knew my father and I—I—thought you wouldn’t He glanced at her again, anxiously, she thought and she sald suddenly, with her habitual directness: “Did you eome from your mother?” “No, I came on—on—my own hook. I wanted”—he looked vaguely about and then laid his hat on a table near him—*“1 wanted to see you on busi- ness of my own.” The nervousness from which he was evidently suffering began to communi- cate itself to Mariposa. The Shackle- ton family had come to mean every- thing that was painful and agitating to her, and here was a new one want- ing to talk to her about business that she knew, past a doubt, was of some unusual character. “If you've come to talk to me about going to Europe,” she said desperate- Iy. “I may as well tell you, there's no use. I won't go te Paris mow, as I once said I would, and there’s no good trying to make me change my mind. Your mother .and Mrs. Willers have both tried to, and it's very kind of them, but I-—can’t. She had an expression at ouce of fright and determination, The sub- ject was becoming a nightmare to her, and she sew herself attacked again from o strange quarter, and with, she imagined, a new set of arguments. “it's nothing to do with going to Europe,” he said. “It's—it's"—he put up one of the long. bony and with the two first fingers pressed his glasses back against his eyes, then dropped the hand and stared at Mari- posa, the eves looking strangely pale and prominent behind the powerful lenses. “It's something that's just between you and me,” he said. She surveyed him without answe ing, her brows drawn, her mind cor centrated on him and on what could mean. “Do you want me to teach somebody music?” she sald, wondering if this could be the pleasant solution of the enigma. A “No. The—er—the business I've come to talk to you about ought to do away altogether with the. necessity of vour giving lessons.” They looked at each otheér silently for a moment. Win was conscipus that his hands were frembling, and that his mouth was dry. He rose from his chait and mechanically reached for his hat. When he had started on his difficult errand he had been certain that she knew her rela- tionship® to his father. Now the dreadful thought entered his mind that perhaps she did not. And even is she did, it was evident that she was not going to give him the least help. “What'is the business you've come to see me about?” she asked. “It's a question of money,” he an- swéred. “Money!” ejaculated Mariposa, i baffled amaze. ‘“What money? Way?” He glanced desperately into his hat and then back at her. She saw the hat trembling in his hand and sud- denly realized that this man was try- ing to say something that was agita- ting him to the marrow of his being. “'Mr. Shackleton,” she said, rising to her feet, “tell me what you mean. 1 don’t understand. I'm completely at sea. How can there be any question of money between us when I've never seen you or met you before? Explain it all.” . He dropped the hat to his side and said slowly, looking her straight in th2 face: g “I want to give you a share of the estate left me by my father. I look upon it s yours.” There was a pause, He saw her paling under his gaze, and realized that, whatever she might pretend, she knew. His heart bled for her. “As mine!” she said in a low, un- certain volce. “Why?"” ‘‘Because you have a right to it.” There was another pause. He moved close to her and said, in a voice full of a man's é2ep kindness: “I can’t explain any more. Don’t ask it. Don’t let’s bother anything in the background. It's just the present that's our affair.” He suddenly dropped his -hat and took her hand. It was as cold as his had been. He pressed it, and Mari- posa, looking dazedly at him, saw a gle2m like tears behind the glasses. “It's hatefu] to have you living here like this, while we—that is, while other people—have everything. I can't stand it. It's too mean and un- fair. 1 want you to share with me.” She shook her head, lboking down, a hundred thoughts bursting in upon her brain. What did he know? How had he found it out? In his grasp, her hand trembled pitifully. “Don’t ‘shake your head,” #e pleaded, “it's so hard to say it. Don't turn it down before you've heard out.” “And it's hard te hear it,” she mur- mured. “No one knows anything of this but me,” he continued, “and I promise you that no other ever shall. It'll be just between us as between'’—he paused and then added with a voice that was husky—"as between brother aad sis- ter.” She shook her head again, faeling ‘for the moment too upset ts speak, and tried to draw away from him. But he put his other hand on her shoulder and held her. “I'll go halfves with you. I ~an have it all arranged so that no one wili cver find out. I can’t make th: regular partition of the property unti] the end of the year. But, until then, I'll senl you what would be vyour interest, monthly,' and you can tive where, or how you like. I—1 can’t go on knowing things, and thinking -« you living in this sort of way and teach- ing music.” “1 can’t do it,” she said, in a stran- gled undertone, and pulling her hand out of his grasp. “I caw't. It's not pdssible. I can’t take monsy that was your father's.” “But it's not his—it's mine no Don't let what's dead and buried com up and interfere,” She backed away from him, still shaking her head. She made an ef- fort toward a cold compo: . but her pain seemed to show mure ciearly through it. He looked at her, vered, irresolute, wrung with p!y, that he knew she would not permit him to ex press. e It was impossible for them to un- derstand each other. 8he, with her secret knowledge of her mother's Jaw- ful clalm and her own legitimacy-—he regarding her as the wronged child of — e he his father’s sin. In he- Jawed tress she only half-graipei w thought. The strong=st feelin she had was once again to sscap= Lhe toils that these terrible peobi>, who had s0 wronged her mother, were spreading for her. They wanted tc pay her to redeem the strain on their past. “Money can't set right what was wrong,” she said. “Money ean't scuzre things betwesa your fumily and mine,” “Money can't square anything—T don't want <o. ['m not trying to square things; I've not thought about it that way at all. I just wanted you to have it because it seemed all wrong for you ot to. You had a right, just as - I had, and Maud had. I don't think I've thought much about it anyway. It just came to me that vou ought (o have what was yours. I wouldn't make you feel bad for the world.” “Then remember, once and forever, that I take nothing from you or your people. 1'd rather beg than take money that came from your father.” “But he has nothing to do with it. It's mine now. I've done you no in- jury, and it’s I that want you to take it. Won't you take it from me?"” He spoke _simply. almost wistfully. like a little Doy. Mariposa answered: No—Oh, Mr. Shackleton, why don’t you and your people let me alone? I won't tell. I'll keep it all a secret. But your mother torments me to go to Europe—and now you come! If I were starving, I wouldn't—I couldn’t—take anything from any of you. 1 think you're kind. I think you've just come to-day because you were sorry. But don’t talk about it any more. Let me be. Let me go along teaching here where I belong. Forget me. Forget that you ever saw me. Forget’ the miserable tie of blood there is between us.” “That's the thing I can't forget. That's the thing that worries me. It's not the past. I've nothing to do with that. It's the present that's my af- fair. 1 can’t have everything while you have nothing. It don’t seem to me it's like a man to act that way. It goes against me, anyhow. I don't of- fer you this because of anything in the past; that's my father’s affair. I don’t know anything about it. I offer it be- cause I—I—I"— he stammered over the unfamiliar words and finally jerked out—** because I want to give back what belongs tosyou. That's all there is to it. Please take it.” She looked directly into his eyes and said, gravely: “No. sorry if it's a disappoint- ment, bul can’t.” Then she s8ddenly looked down, her face began to quiver, and she said in a broken undertone: “Don't talk about it any more; hurts me so.” Win turned quickly away from her and picked up his hat. He was con- fused and disappointed, and relieved, too, for he had done the most difficult piece of work of his life. But, at the moment, hi§ most engrossing feeling was sympathy for this girl, so bravely drawing her pride together over the bleeding of her heart. She murmured a response in a steadier voice and he turfied toward ‘r. Had any of his society friends been by they would hardly have known him. The foolish manner be- hind which he sheltered his shy and sensitive nature was gone. He was grave and looked very much of a man. “Well, of course, it's for you to say what you want. But there’s one thing T'd like you to promise.” To promise?” she said uneasily. “Yes, and to keep ft, too. And that is, if you ever want anything—help in any way; if you get blue in your spirits, or some one’s not doing the straight thing by you, or gone back on you—to come to me. I'm not much in some ways, but 1 guess I could be of use. And, anyway, it's good for a girl to have some friend that she can count on, who's a man. And"—he paused with the door handle in h_l; hand—"and now you know me, any- way, and that's something. Will you promise 7" “Yes, I'll proniise that,” said Mari- posa, and moving toward him she gave him her hand. He pressed it, opened the door. Mariposa heard the hall door bang be- hind him. She sat down in the chair from which she had risen, her hands lying idle in her lap, her eyes on a rose in the carpet, trying te think, to understand what it meant. it dropped it and A moment later CHAPTER XVIIL WITH ME TO HELP. ““Look in my face, my name is—Might Have Been I em also called, No More, Too Late. Fare- well. —Rossetti. Had Essex realized that Mrs. Will- ers was an adverse agent in his suit of Mariposa, he would not have greeted her with the urbane courte- ousness that marked their meetings. He was a man of many manners, and he never would have wasted one of his best on the newspaper woman, to him essentially uninteresting and un- attractive, unless he had intended thereby to further his own ends. Mrs. Willers he knew to be a friend of Mariposa and he thought it a wise poliey to keep in her good graces. He made that mistake, so often the un- doing of those who are unscrupulous and clever, of not crediting Mrs. Will- ers with her full amount of brains. He had seen her foolish side, and he knew that she was a good journalist of the hustling, energetic. unintellect- ual type, but he saw no deeper. Since their meeting in the park and her unequivocal rejection of him his feeling for Mariposa had augmented in force and fire until it had full pos- session of him. He was of the order of men whom easy conquests cool. *her. Now added to the girl’s own change of front was the overwhelming induce- ment of the wealth she represented. His original idea of Mariposa as a handsome misfress that he would take to France and there nut on the opera- tic stage, of whom he would be the proud owner, while they toured Eu- rope together, her voice and beauty c¢harming kings, had been abandoned since the night of his tilk with® Har- ney. He would marry her, and, with her completely under his dominion, ha would turn upon the Shackleton es- tate and make her claim. He sup- posed her to be in entire ignorance of her parentage, and his first idea had been to marry her and not lighten this ignorance till she was safely in his power. He had a fear of her s ing before the hazards of the enter- prise, but he was confident that, once his, all unles, timidity and will would give way before him. But her refusal of him had these calcuiations, and her co and repugnance had been as oil to the flame of his passion. He was enraged with himself and with her. He thought of the night in the cottag and cursed himself for his tion, and his gods for the il luck that, too late, had revealed to him her rela- tionship to the d At first he had thought riage would obiiterate all memories. But her mann in the park had frightened him. I was not the haughty manner, adopte to conceal hidden fires, ths won who still loves. There had been a chill poise about her that suggested complete withdrawal from his influ- ence. Since then he had cogitated much He foresaw that it was going to be very difficult to and An occasional walk street to Sutter with Mrs. him informed of her movements and doings. Had he guessed that Mrs. Willers, with her rouge higher up on one cheek than the other, the black curls of her bang sprawlingly pressed against her brow by a spotted v was quite conversant with his pret sions and their non-suacess, he woul have been more guarded in his exhi- bition of iInterest. it was Mrs. Willers wrote to Mariposa after one of these walks in which [Essex’'s tions had been carelessly numerous and frank, and told her that he was still “camped on her trail 1 for goodness’ sake not to weaken.” Mari- posa tore up the letter with an angry ejaculation. “Not to weaken!" she said to her- self. If she had only dared to tell Mrs. Willers the whole instead of half the truth! The difficulty of seeing Mariposa was further intensified by the fullness of his own days. He had little time to spare. The new proprietor worked his people for all there was in them and paid them well. Several times on the regular weekly holiday the supe- rior men on The Trumpet were given, he loitered along streets where she had been wont to pass. But he never saw her. The chance that had fa- vored him that once in the-fark was not repeated. - Mrs. Willers said she was very busy. Essex began to won- der if she suspected him of lying in wait for her and was taking her walks along unfrequented byways. Finally, after Christmas had passed and he had still not caught a glimpse of her, he determined to see her in the only way that seemed possible. He had inherited certain traditions of good bfeeding frofn his mother, and it offended this streak of delicacy and decency that was still faintly discerni- ble in his character to intrude upon a lady who had so obviously shown a distaste for his society. But there was nothing else for it. Interests that were vital were at stake. Moreover, his desire, for love's sake, to see her again was overmastering. Her face came between him and his work. There were nights when he stood op- posite the Garcia house watching for her shadow on the blind. He timed his visit at an hour when, according to the information ex- tracted from Mrs. Willers, Mariposa's last pupil for the day should have left. He loitered about at the corner of the street and saw the pupil—one of the grown-up ones in a sealskin sack and a black Gainsbarough hat—open the gate and sweep majestically down the street. Then he strode from his coign of vantage, stepped lightly up the stairs, and rang the bell. It was after school hours, and Bani- to opened the door. Essex, in his silk hat and long, dark overcoat, tall and distinguished, was so much more im- pressive a figure than Win that the lit- tle boy stared at him in overawed sur- prize, and only found his breath when the stranger demanded Miss Moreau. *“Yes, she's in,” said Benito, back- ing away toward the stairs; “I'll call her. She has quite a lot of callers sometimes,” he hazarded pleasantly. The door near by omened a crack. and a female voice issued therefrom in a suppressed tone of irritation. “Benito, why don’'t you show gentleman into the parlor? “He'll go in if he wants,” said Be- nito, who evidently had decided that the stranger knew how to take care of himself; “that's the door.” Essex, who was conscious that the eye which pertained to the voice was surveying him intently through the erack, did as e was bidden and found himseif in the close, musty parlor. It was ldte in the afternoon, and the long lace curtains draped over the windows obscured the light. He wanted to see Mariposa plainly and he looped the curtains back against the brass hooks. His heart was beating hard with expectation. As he_ turnsd round to look at the door he noticed that the key was in the lock, and re- solved, with a sense of grim deter- upset precipi unpleasant that day see ques- an the mination, that if she tried to go when she saw who it was, he could be be- fore her and turn the key. Upstairs Benito had found Mariposa sitting in front of the fire. She had been giving lessons most of the day and was tired. She stretched ‘herself like a sleepy cat as he came in, and put her hand up te her hair, pushing in the loosened hairpins. it's me one about lessons, I guess,’™ she said, rising and giving a hasty look in the glass. “At this rate, Ben, I'll soon be rich he was in good spirits at the pros- pects of a new pupil, and, with her hand on the door-knob, threw Benito a farewell smile, which was #till on she entered ed there for a moment, for at the first glance she did not recog- nize Essex, who was standing with his back to the panes of the unveiled win- dows; then he moved toward her and she saw who it was. She gav a smothered and drew back. “Mr. F x!" she said come here? He had intended to meet her with is customary half impudent, half ca- joling suavity, but found that he could not. The sight of her filled him with flery agitation. I e be away,’ hand “No, e 8aid, glancing at the ha and turning her head aside with an im- patient movement; “thers ean’t be any pretenses at friendship between us. 1 don’t want to shake hands with you. I don’t want to see you. What did you To see you. 1 had to see you.” fixed on her as she stood light of the windpw, seemed tc italicize the words of the sentenc “There’s no use beginning that sub- ject again,” said hurriedly there's talking about those things."” ‘What things? ring to?” For a moment she felt the old help- less feeling coming over her, but she forced it aside and said, looking stead- ily at him: ‘The things we talked about park the last time we met.” She saw his dark face flush. too much in earnest now to be ert his supremacy by teasing tions. “Nevertheless, repeat those thin, “Don’t—don't,” quickly “there’s no use. I won't listen to them It's not polite to intrude into a lady's house and try to talk about subjects she detests.” “The time has passed -for us to polite or impelite,” he answered hotly “we're not the’man and woman as so ciety and the world has made them We're not speaking to each other through the vells conventionality we're speaking face to face. We have hearts and souls and passions. We've loved each other.” “Never,” she said: ment.” “You have a bad memory.” he an- swered slowly; “is it natural or culti- vated?” He had the satisfaction of seeing her color rise. The sight sent a thrill of hope through him. He moved nearer to her and said in a voice that vibrated with feeling: Ycu loved me once.” No, never, never. that. “Then why,” he answered, his lips trying to twist themselves into a sar- donic smile, while rage possessed him, “why did you—iet us say—encourage me so that night in the cottage on Pine street?” Though her color burned deeper, her eyes did not drop. He had never seen hér dominating her o girlish im- pulses like this. It seemed te remove her thousands of miles from the circle of his power. “I'll tell you,” she answered: “I was lonely and miserable, and you seemed the only ¢ ature that I had to care for. 1 thought you were fond of me, and I thought it was wonderful that any as clever as you could really care for me. That you regarded me as you did I could no more have imagined than I could have suspected you of picking my pocket or murdering me. And that night in the cottage, when in my lone- liness and distress I seemed to be holding cut my arms to you, asking you to protect and comfort me, you laughed at me and struck me a blow iu the face. It was the end of my dream. I wakened then and saw the reality. But you—you as you are—as I know you new—1 never loved, I never could ha loved. (Continued Next Sunday.) exclamation ‘why do you use 1T couldn’ advancing Kkeep said, with his ayes, she use ‘What are you refer- In the He was able to equiv- come to-¢ T've lay te she said be “never for a mo- It..was never “THE .QUEEN OF OUELPARTE.” | By Archer Butler Hnl- bert. Hulbert's novel, “The Queen of Quelparte,” is a story of Rus- Mz sian intrigue in the Far BfS., feunded unon the alleged will of Peter the Great, which is said to dominant in Russia’s terri- torfal advance. Mr. Hulbert tell in form of fiction the story ¢ the temporary acquisition of Ko- rea, just before Russia leased Port Arthur, showing how Rus- sia, by intrigue and deceit, com- quered Korea in 1897 in order to have something to threw over to Japan to keep her from precipi- tating war over the announce- ment of the lease of Port Arthur. Beginfiiigfi After “To-Morrow’s Tangle.” Sunday Call, April 10.