The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, July 10, 1904, Page 3

than the old Major himself, and had followed me every inch of the way. “There's something loose with this hatchet, sir,” I said, innocently look- ing down at him. “Oh, there is? What an observing little fellow you are! Never mind the hatchet; just tell me what number you were sent to answer.” “Number?” I repeated, as though I couldn’t see why he wanted to know. “Why—431." “Not much, my boy—33L" . ‘ngse me, sir, ain’t you mistaken?"” He I0oked at me for a full minute. I stared him straight in the eve. A nasty eye he's got—black and blood- shot and cold and full of suspicion. But it wavered a bit at the end. “I may be,” he said slowly, “but not about the number. Just you turn around and get down to 331" “AH right, sir. Thank you very much. It might have got me in trou- ble. The ladies are so particular about having the bells answered quick—" “I guess you'll get In trouble all right,” he said and stood watching— from where he stood he could watch me every inch of the way—till I got to 321, at the end of the hall, Mrs. King- don’s door, And the goods still on me, mind that. My, but Mrs. Kingdon was wrathy when she saw me! “Why did they send you?” she cried. “Why did you keep me walting so long? I want a chambermaid. I've rung & dozen times. The whole place is crazy about that old ball to-night, and no one can get decent attention.” “Can’t I do what you want, ma’am?’ I just yearned to get inside that door. “No,” she snapped. “I don’t want a boy to fasten my dress in the back—" “We often do, ma'am,” I said softly. “You do? Well—" “Yes'm.” I breathed again. “Well—it's indecent. Go down and send me a maid.” She was just closing the door in my face—and Moriway waliting for me to watch me down again. “Mrs. Kingdon—" “Well, what do you want?” “I want to tell you that when I get down to the office they’ll search me.” She looked at me amazed. “And—and there's something in my pocket I—you wouldn’t like them to find.” 'What in the world—my diamonds! You did take them, you little wretch?” She caught hold of my coat. But Lo I didn’t want to get away a Tom, rdy! little bit. I let her pull me in, and then I backed up against the door and shut it. Diamonds! Oh, no, ma’am. I hope I'm not a thief. But—but it was some- s you dropped—this.” : I fished Moriway's letter out of my and handed it to her. »or old lady! Being a bellboy »w just how old ladies really Th one at evening, after her ad been massaged for an hour, manicure girl and hairdresse had gone, wasn't so bad. But to-day, ith the marks of the morning’s tears on her agitated face, with the blood pounding up to her temples where the hair was thin and gray—Tom Dorgan, a vain old fool like that when hree times as old as I am, just tie ne around my neck and take me and drop me into the nearest won't you? abominable little wretch!” she 1. “I suppose you've told every- 7 in the office.” “How could I, ma'am?” “How could you?”’ . She looked up, the tears on her flabby, flushed cheek. “] didn’t know myself. I can’t read writing—" It was thin, but she wanted to be- lieve it She could have taken me In her arms, the was so happy. “There! there!” she patted my shoul- der and gave me a dollar bill. “I was a bit hasty, Nat. It's only a—a little business matter that Mr. Moriway’'s attending to for me. We—we’ll finish it up this afternoon. I shouldn’t like Miss Kingdon to know of it, because— about business, you know. So don’t mention it when she comes to-mor- row.” “No'm. Ehall I fasten your dress?” 1 simply had to stay in that room till I got rid of those diamonds. With a faded old blush—the nicest thing about her I'd ever seen—she turned her back. “It's dark to-day, ma'am,” I coaxed. “Would you mind coming nearer the window 7" No, she wouldn't mind. She backed up to the corner like a gentle little lamb. While I hooked with one hand, 1 dropped the bag where the carpet was still turned up, and with the toe of my shoe spread it flat again. “You're real handy for a boy,” she said, pleased. “Thank you, ma'am,” pleased myself. Moriway was still watching me, of course, when I came out, but I ran downstairs, he following close, and when the Major got hold of me, I pulled my pockets inside out like a lit- tle man. Moriway was there at the time. I knew he wasn't convinced. But he couldn't watch a bellboy all day long, and the moment I was sure his eyes were off me I was ready to get those diamonds back again. But not a call came all that after- noon from the west side of the house, except the call of those pretty, precious things snug under the carpet calling, calling to me to come and get them and drop bellboying for good. At last I couldn’t stand it any long- er. There's only one thing to do when your chance won't come to you; that is, to go to it. At about four o'clock I lit out, climbed to the second story and there—Mag, I always was the luckiest girl at the Cruelty, wasn't I? Well, there was suite 231 torn up, plum- bers and painters in there, and nothing in the world to prevent a boy’s skin- ning through when no one was watch- Y answered, ing, out of the window and up the fire- escape. Just outside of Mrs. Kingdon's win- dow I lay still a minute. I had seen her and Moriway go out together—she all gay with finery, he carrying her bag. The lace curtains In 331 were blowing in the breeze. Cautiously I parted them and looked in. Every- thing was lovely. From where I lay I reached down and turned back the flap of the carpet. It was too easy. Those darling diamonds seemed just to leap up into my hand. In a moment I had them tucked away in my pants pocket. Then down the fire-escape and out through 231, where I told the painter I'd been to get a toy the boy in 441 had dropped out of the window. But he pald no attention to me. No one did, though I felt those diamonds shining like an X-ray through my very body. I got downstairs and was actually outside the door, almost in the street and off to you, when a girl called me. “Here, boy, carry this case,” said. Do you know whe it was? Oh, yes, you do, a dear old friend of mine from Philadelphia, a young lady whose taste—well, all right, I'll tell you; it was the girl with the red coat, and the hat with the chinchilla fur. How did they look? Oh, fairly well on a blonde. But to my taste the last girl I'd seen In the coat and hat was handsomer. Well, I carried her suit-case and fol- lowed her back into the hotel. I didn’t want to a bit, though the coat still— wonder how she got it back! She sailed up the hall and into the elevator, and I had to follow. We got off at the third story, and she brought me right to the door of 331. And then I knew this must be Evelyn. “Mrs. Kingdon's out, Miss. She didn’t expect you till to-morrow.” “Did she tell you that? Too bad she isn’t at home! She sald she'd be kept busy all day to-day with a business matter, and that I'd better not get here till to-morrow. But I—" “Wanted to get here in time for the wedding?" 1 suggested softly. You should have seen her jump. “Wedding! Not—" “Mrs. Kingdon and Mr. Moriway."” She turned white. “Has that man followed her here? Quick, tell me. Has she actually mar- ried him?” “No—not yet. It's for five o'clock at the church on the corner.” “How do you know?” She turned on me, suddenly suspicious. “Well—I do know. And I'm the only person in the house that does.” “T don’t believe you.” She took out her key and opened the door, and I followed her in with the suit-case. But before I could get it et down on the floor, she swooped on a letter that was lying in the middle of the table, had torn it open, and then with a cry had come whirling toward me. “Where is this church? Come, help me to get to it before five and I'll—oh, you shall have anything in the world you want.” She flew out into the hall, T after her. And first thing you know we were down in the street, around the corner, and there in front of the church was a carriage with Moriway just helping Mrs. Kingdon out. “Mother!"” At that cry the old lady’s knees seemed to crumble under her. Her poor old painted face tooked ghastly and ashamed from her wedding finery. But Evelyn in her red coat flew to her and took her in her arms as though she was a child. And llke a child, Mrs. Kingdon sobbed and made excuses and begged to be forgiven. I looked at Moriway. It was the pay 1 wanted—particularly as I had those little diamonds. “You're just in time, Miss Kingdon,” he said uneasily, “to maxe your moth- er happy by your presence at her wed- ding.” 13 “I'm just in time, Mr. Moriway, to see that my mother’s not made un- happy by your presence.” “Evelyn!” Mrs. Kingdon remon- strated. “Come, Sarah.” Moriway offered his arm. The bride shook her head. “To-morrow,” she sald feebly. Moriway breathed a swear. Miss Kingdon laughed. “I've come to take care of you, you silly little mother, dear. . . . It won’t be to-morrow, Mr. Moriway.” “No—not to morrow — next week,” sighed Mrs. Kingdon. “In fact, mother’s changed her mind, Mr. Moriway. She thinks it ungener- ous to accept such a sacrifice from a man who might be her son—don’t you, mother?” ““Well, perhaps, George—" She looked up from her ghter’s shoulder—she was crying all over that precious red coat of mine—and her eyes lit on me. “Oh—you wicked boy, you told a lie!” ehe gasped. “You did read my letter.” 1 laughed; laughed out loud, it was such a bully thing to watch Moriway’s face. But that was an unlucky laugh of mine; it turned his wrath on me. He made a dive toward me. I ducked and ran. Oh, how I ran! But if he hadn’t slipped on the curb he’d have had me. As he fell, though, he let out a yell: “Stop thief! Stop thief! Thief! Thief! Thief!” ’ May you never hear it, Mag, behind you when you've somebody’s dia- monds in your pocket. It sounds—it sounds the way the bay of the hounds must sound to the hare. It seems to fly along with the air; at the same time to be behind you, at your side, even in front of you. I heard it bellowed in a dozen differ- ent voices, and every now and then I could hear Moriway as I pelted on— that brassy, cruel bellow of his that made my heart sick. And then all at once I heard a police- man’s whistle. That whistle was like a signal—I saw the gates of the Correction open be- oy THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. fore me. I saw your Nance, Tom, in a neat striped dress, and she was behind bars—bars—bars! There were bars everywhere before me. In fact, I felt them against my very hands, for in my mad race I had shot up & blind alley —a street that ended in a garden be- hind an iron fence. 1 grabbed the diamonds to throw them from me, but I couldn’t—I just couldn’t! I jumped the fence where the gate was low, and with that ‘whis- tle fiying shrill and shriller after me I ran to the house. . I might have jumped from the fry- ing-pan? Of course, I might. But it was all fire to me. To be caught at the end is at least no worse than to be caught at the beginning. Anyhow, it was my one chance, and I took it as unhesitatingly as a rat takes a leap into & trap to escape a terrier. Only— only, it was my luck that the trap wasn't set! The room was empty. I pushed open a glass door, and fell over an open trunk that stood be- side 1t. [ It bruised my knee and tore my hand, but oh!—it was nuts to me. For it was a woman's trunk filled with women's things. A skirt! A blessed skirt! And not a striped one. I threw off the bellboy’'s jacket and I got Into that dear dress so quick it made my head swim. The jacket was a bit tight, but T didn’t button it, and I'd just got a stiff little hat perched on my head when I heard the tramp of men on the sidewalk,” and in the dusk saw the cop's buttons at the gate. Caught? Not much. Not vyet. I threw open the glass doors and walked out into the garden. “Miss—Omar—I wonder if it would be Miss Omar?” You bet I didn’t take time to see who it was talking before I answered. Of course I was" Miss Omar. I was Miss Anybody that had a right to wear skirts and be inside those blessed gates. “Ah—h! I fancied you might be. T've been expecyng you.” It was a lazy, low voice with a laugh in it, and it came from a wheeled chair, where a young man lay. Sallow he was and slim and long, and helpless— you could see that by his white hang- ing hands. But his voice—it was what a woman's voice would be if she were a man. It made you perk up and pre- tend to be somewhere near its level. It fitted his soft, black clothes and his fine, clean face. It meant silks and velvets and— ; Oh, all right, Tommy Dorgan, if you're going to get jealous of a voice. “Excuse me, Mr. Latimer.” The cop came in as he spoke, Moriway follow- ing; the rest of the hounds hung about. “There’s a thieving bellboy from the hotel that’s somewhere in your grounds. Can I core in and 2ot him?” “In here, Sergean Arent you mis- taken?” saw him ies since.” “Strange, € the time! I may have dozed §f (thou Certain- ly—certaindy. Lol for the MHttle ras- cal. Whei's Diamonds! Tut! tut! & 't he? . .. Miss Omar 1 kindly reach the bell yonder—no, qu yhe tabie; that's it e to take the 1 rang. Do you know what happered? An electric light struns on the tree above the table sh ut, and there I stood under it Moriwaj's eves full upon me. “Great—!" he bagan. | “Just ring again—" Mr. Latimer's voice came as soft as silk, My fingers trembled so, the bell clat- tered out of them and fell jangling to the ground. But it rang. And the light above me went out like magic. I fell back into a garden chair. “I beg your pardon, Mr.—was Mori- way the name?—I must have inter- rupted you, but my eyes are troubling me this evening, and I can’t bear the light. Miss Omar, I thought the housekeeper had instructed you; one ring means lights, two mean I want Burnett. Here he comes. . . Bur- nett, take Sergeant Mulhill through the place. He's looking for a thief. You will accompany the sergeant, Mr. —Moriway?" “Thank you—no. I'll wait out here.” That meant me. I moved toward the gate. . “Not at all. Have a seat. Miss Omar, sit down, won't you?” 1 sat down. “Miss Omar reads to me, Mr. Mori- way. I'm an invalld, as you see, de- pendent on the good offices of my man. I find a woman's voice a soothing change.” “It must be. Particularly if the voice is pleasing. Miss Omar—I didn’t quite catch the name—" He waited. But Miss Omar had nothing to say that minute. “Yes, that’s the name. You've got it all right,” sald Latimer. “An un- common name, isn’t {t?” “I don’t think I ever heard it before. Do you know, Miss Omar, as I heard your volce just before we got to the gate, it sounded singularly boyish to me."” “Mr. Latimer does not find it so—do you?” I said as sweet—as sweet as I could coax. How sweet's that, Tom Dorgan? “Not at all.” A little laugh came from Latimer as though he was en- Joying a joke all by himself. But Mori- way jumped with satisfaction. He knew the voice all right. “Have you a brother, may I ask?” He leaned over and looked keenly at me. “I am an orphan,” “with no relatives.” “A pitiful position,” sneered Mori- way. “You look so much like a boy I know that—" “Do you really think so?” So aw- fully polite was Latimer to such a rat as Moriway. Why? Well, wait. “I can’t agree with you. Do you know, I If you don't mind, I said sadly, find Miss Omar very feminine. Of course, short hair—" “Her hair is short, then?” “Typhoid,” I murmured. “Too bad!” Moriway sneered. “Yes,” I snapped. “I thought it was at the time. My hair was very heavy and long, and I had a chance to sit in a window at Troyon’s where they were advertising a hair tonic and—" Rotten? Of course it was. T'd no business to gabble, and just because you and your new job, Mag, came to my mind at that minute, there I went putting my foot in it. Moriway laughed. sound of his laugh. “Your reader is versatile, Mr. Lati- mer,” he said. ' “Yes.” Latimer smoothed the soft silk rug that lay over him. “Poverty and that sort of versatility are often bedfellows, eh? . . . Tell me, Mr. Moriway, these lost dlamonds are yours?” “No. They belong to a—a friend of mine, Mrs. Kingdon.” “‘Oh! the old lady who was married this afternoon to a young fortune- hunter!” I couldn’t resist it. Moriway jumped out of his seat. “‘She was not marriéd,” he stuttered. “She— “Changed her mind? How sensible of her! Did she find out what a crook the fellow was? What was his name — Morrison ? No — Middleway — I have heard it.” “May 1 ask, Miss Omar”—I didn't have to see his face; his voice told how mad with rage he was—"how you come to be acquainted with a matter that only the contracting parties could pos- sibly know of 2" . “Why, they can't have kept it very secret, the old lady and the young ras- cal who was after her money, for you see we both knew of it; and I wasn't the bride and you certainly weren't the groom, were you?” An exclamation burst from him. “Mr. Latimer,” he stormed, “may I see you a mcment alone?” Phew! That meant me. Jjust the same. “Just keep your seat, Miss Omar.” Oh, that silken voice of Latimer's! “Mr. Moriway, I have absolutely no acquaintance with you. I never saw you till to-night. I can’t imagine what you may have to say to me, that my secretary—Miss Omar acts In that ca- pacity—may not hear.” £ “I want to say,” burst from Mori- way, “that she looks the image of the boy Nat, who stole Mrs. Kingdon's diamonds, that the voice is exactly the same, that—" “But you have said it, Mr. Moriway— quite successfully Intimated it, I as- sure you.” “She knows of my—of Mrs. King- don’s marriage, that that boy Nat found out about.” “And you yourself also, as Omar mentioned.” “Myself? Damn it, I'm Moriway, the man she was going to marry. Why shouldn’t T- “Ah-h!" shoulders shook with & gentle “Well, Mr. Mori- way, gentlemen don’t swear in my garden. Particularly when ladies are present. Shall we say good evening? Here comes Mulhill now. . . Nothing, sergeant? Too bad the rogue escaped, but you'll catch him. They may get away from you, but they never stay long, do they? Good evening—good evening, Mr. Moriway.” They tramped on and out, Moriway’s very back showing rage. He whis- pered something to the Sergeant, who turned to look at me but shook his head, and the gate clanged after them. A long sigh escaped me. “Warm, isn’t it?" Latimer leaned for- ward. “Now, would you mind ringil again, Miss Omar?” I bent and groped for the bell and rang it twice. “How quick you are to learn!” he said. “But I really wanted the light thi time. . . . Justlight up, Burnett, he called to the man, who had come out on the porch. The electric bulb flashed out again just over my head. Latimer turned and looked at me. When I couldn’t bear it any longer, 1 looked defiantly I didn’t like the But I got up Miss up at him. “Pardon,” he said, smiling: nice teeth he has and clear eyes. “I was just looking for that boyish resem- biance Mr. Moriway spoke of. T hold to my first opinion—you're very femi- nine, Miss Omar. . ‘Will you read to me now, if you please?” He pointed to a big open book on the table beside his couch. v “I think—if you don’t mind, Mr. Lat- imer, I'll begin the reading to-morrow.” I got up to go. I was through with that garden now. “But I do mind!” . Silken voice? Not 4 bit of it! I turned on him sp furious I thought I didn’t care what came of it—when over by the great gate-post I saw a man crouching—Moriway. I sat down again and pulled the book farther toward the light. ‘We didn't leagn much poetry at the Cruelty, did we, Mag? But I know some now, just the same. When I be- gan to read I heard only one word— Moriway—Moriway—Moriway. But I must have forgotten him after a time. and the dark garden with the light on only one spot, and the roses smelling, and Latimer lying perfectly still, his face turned toward me, for I was read- ing—listen, 1 bet I can remember that part of it if I say it slow— Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst mal e, And_ev'n with Paradise devise the Snake: For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man Is blacken'd — Man’s forgiveness give—and take! —when all at once Mr. Latimer put his hand on the book. I looked up with a start. The shadow by the gate was gone. Yon rising Moon that looks for us again-> How oft hereafter will she wax and wane: How oft hereafter rising loo¥ for us Through ‘E‘:l,l same Garden—and for one in v Latimer was saying it without the book and with a queer smile that made me feel I hadn’t quite caught on. “Thank you, that will do,” he went on. “That is enough, Miss—" He stopped. I walted. He did not say “Omar.” 1 looked him square in the eye—and then I had enough. “But what in the devil did you make believe for?"” I asked. He smiled. “If ever you come to lie on your back day and night, year in and year out, and know that never in your life will it be any different, you may take pleas- ure in a bit of excitement and—and learn to pity the under dog, who, in this case, happened to be a boy that leaped over the gate as though his heart was in his mouth. Just as you would ad- mire the nerve of the young lady that came out of the house a few minutes after in your housekeeper’s Sunday gown.” 3 Yes, grin, Tom Dorgan. You won't grin long. I put down the book and got up to “Good night, then, and thank you, Mr. Latimer.” “Good night. . didn’t say “Omar"— you might do me.” “Sure!” I wondered what it could be. “Those diamonds. I've got to have them, you know, to send them back to their owner. I don’t mind helping a —a person who helps himself to other people’s things, but I can‘t let him get away with this plunder without be- ing that kind of person myself. So—" ‘Why didn’t I lie? Because there are some people you don't lie to, Tom Dor- gan. Don't talk to me, you bully, I'm savage enough. To have rings and pins and ear-rings, a whole bagful of diamonds, and to haul 'em out of your pocket and lay 'em on the table there before him! “I wonder, he said slowly, as he put them away in his own pocket, “what a man like me could do for a girl like you?" “Reform her!” I snarled. “Show her how to gét diamonds honestly.” Say, Tom, let's go m for game. . Oh, Miss—" He ‘there is a favor bigger 1T Oh, Mag, Mag, for heaven's sake, let me talk to you! No, don’t say any- thing. You must let me tell you. No— don’t call the other giris.* I can’t bear to tell this to anybody but you. You know how I kicked when Tom hit on Latimer's as the place we were to scuttle. And the harder I kicked the stubborner he got, till he swore he’d do the job without me if I wouldn’t come along. Well—this is the rest of it. The house you know stands at the end of the street. If you could walk through the garden with the iron fence you'd come right down the bluff on to the docks and out into East River. Tom and 1 came up to it from the docks last night. It was dark and wet, you remember. The mud was thick on my trousers—Nance Olden’s a boy evéry time when it comes to doing “We'll blow it all in, Tom,” I said, as we climbed. “We'll spend a week at the Waldorf, and then, Tom Dor- gan, we'll go to Paris. I want a red coat and hat with chinchilla, like that dear one I lost,.and a low-neck satin gown, and a silk petticoat with lace, and a chain with rhinestones, and—" “Just wait, Sis, till you get out of this. And keep still.” “I can't. I'm so fidgety I must talk or I'll shriek.” “Well, you’ll shut up just the same. Do you hear me?" I shut up, but my teeth chattered so that Tom stopped at the gate. “Look here, Nance, are you going to flunk? Say it now—yes or no.” That made me mad. “Tom Dorgan,” I said, “T'll bet your own teeth chattered the first time you went in for a thing like this. I'm all right. You'll squeal before I do.” “That’s more like. Here's the gate. It's locked. Come, Nance.” ‘With a good, strong swing he boosted me over, handed me tne bag of tools and sprang over himself. . . . He looked kind o’ handsome and fine, my Tom, as he lit square and light on his feet beside me. And because he did, I put my arm in his and gave it a squeeze. Oh, Mag, it was so funny, going through Latimer's garden! There was the garden table where I had sat read- ing and thinking he took me for Miss Omar. There was the bench where that beast Moriway sat sneering at me. The wheeled chair was gone. And it was so late everything looked asleep. But something was left behind that made me think I heard Latimer’s slow, silken voice,and made me feel cheap— turned inside out like an empty pocket —a dirty, ragged pocket wih a seam in it. “You'll stay here, Nancy, and watch,” Tom whispered. “You'll whis- tle once if a cop comes inside the gate, but not before he's inside the gate. Don’t whistle too soon—mind that—nor too loud. T'll hear ye all right. And T'll whistie just once if—anything hap- pens. Then you run—hear me? Run like the devil—" “Tommy—" “Well, what?" “Nothing—all right.” I wanted to say good-by—but you know Tom. Mag, were you ever where you oughtn’t to be at midnight—alone! No, 1 know you weren't. 'Twas your ugly little face and your hair that saved you —the red hair we used to guy so at the Crueity. I can see you now—a frec- kled-faced, thin little devil, with the tangled hair to the very edge of your ragged skirt, yanked in that first day to the Cruelty when the neighbors com- plained your crying wouldn’t let 'em sleep nights. The old woman had just locked you in there, hadn't she, to starve, when she lit out. Mothers are queer, ain’t they, when they are queer. I never remember mine. Yes, I'll go on. 1 stood it all right for a time, out there alcne in the night. But I never was one to wait patiently. I can't wait —it isn’t in me. But there I had to stand and just—God!—just wait. 1f I hadn’t waited so hard at the very firs€ 1 wouldn’t ‘a’ given out so soon. But I stood so still and listened so ter- ribly hard that the trees began to whisper and the bushes to crack and creep. 1 heard things in my head and ears that weren't sounding anywhere else. And all of a sudden—tramp, tramp, tramp—I heard the cop’s foot- steps. He stopped over there by the swing- ing electric light above the gate. I crouched down behind the iron bench. And my coat caught a twig on a bush and its crack—ck was like a yell. I thought I'd die. I thought I'd scream. I thought I'd run. I thought I'd faint. But I didn't—for there, asleep on a rug that some one had for- gotten to take in, was the house cat. I gave her a quick slap and she flew out and across the path like a flash. The cop watched her, his hand on the gate and passed on. Mag Monahan, if Tom had come out that minute without a bean and gone home with me, I'd been so relieved I'd never have tried again. But he didn’t come. Nothing happened. Nights and nights went by, and the stillness began to #ound again. My throat went chok- ing mad. I began to shiver, and I reached for the.rug the cat had lain on. Funny, how some things strike you! This was Latimer’s rug. I had noticed it that evening—a warm, soft, mottled green that looked like silk and fur mixed. I could see the way his long, white hands locked on it, and as I touched it T could hear his voice— Oh. Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make, And_ev'n with Paradise devise the Sn: For all the Sin wherewith the Face of man Is blacken'd — Man's forgiveness give—and take! Ever hear a man like that say a thing like that? No? Well, it's—it's different. It's as if the river had spok- en—or -a tree—it's so—it’s so different. That saved me—that verse that I re- membemed. I said it over and over and over again to myself. I fitted it to the ferry whistles on the bay—to the cop’s steps as they passed again—to the roar of the L-train and the jangling of the surface cars. And right in the middle of it—every drop of blood in my body seemed to leak out of me, and then come rush- ing back to my head—I heard Tom's whistle. Qh, it's easy to say “run,” and I really meant it when I promised Tom. But you see I hadn’t heard that whistle then. It set the devil In me loose. I felt as if the world was tearing some- thing of mine away from me. Stand for it? Not Nance Olden. I did run—but it was toward the house. That whistle may have meant “Go!” To me it yelled “Come!™ 1 got in through the window Tom had left open. The place was still quiet. Ngbody inside had heard that whistle so far as I could tell. 1 crept along—the carpets were thick and soft and silky as the rug I'd had my hands buried in to keep 'em warm. Along a long hall and through a great room, whose walls were thick with books, I was making for a light T could see at the back of the house. That’s where Tom Dorgan must be and where T must be to find out—to know. With my hands out in front of me I hurried, but softly, and just as I had reached the portieres below which the light streamed, my arms closed about a thing — cold as marble, naked — I thought it was a dead body upright there, and with a cry, I pitched for- ward through the curtains into the lighted room. “Nance!—you devil!"™ You recognize it? Yep, it was Tom. Big Tom Dorgan, at the foot of Lati- mer’s bed, his right hands above his head, and Latimer’s gun almed right at his heart. Think of the pluck of that cripple, will you? His eyes turned on me for just a sec- ond, and then fixed themselves again on Tom. But his voice went straight to me, all right. “You are something of a thankless devil, T must admit, Miss—Omar,” he said. I didn't say anything. You don’t say things in answer to things like that. You. fee! "em. Ashamed? What do I care for a man with a voice Iike that! . . . But you should have heard how Tom's growl sounded after it. “Why the hell didn't you light out?" “I couldn’t, Tom. I just couldn't,” T sobbed. “There seems invariably to be a mis- understanding of signals where Miss Omar is concerned. Also a disposition to use strong language in the lady's presence. Don’t you, young man!” “Don’t you call me Miss Omar!” I blazed, stamping my foot. He laughed a contemptuous laugh. I could have killed him, then, I hated him so. At least, I thought I could: but just then Tom sent a spark out of the corner of his eye to me that meant —it meant— You know, Mag, what it would have meant to Latimer if I had done what Tom's eye said. I thought at first T had done it—it passed through my mind so quick;the sweet words I'd say—the move I'd make—the quick knocking-up of the pistol, and then— It was that—that sight of Tom, big Tom Deorgan, with rage in his heart and death in his hand, leaping on that cripple’s body—it made me sick! I stood there gasping—stood a mo- ment too long. For the curtains were pushed aside, and Burnett, Latimer’'s servant, and the cop came in. Tom didn’t fight; he’s no waste himself. But I—well, never mind about me. T caught a glimpse of a crazy white face on a boy's body in the great glass op- fool to