The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, December 31, 1905, Page 4

AN mply to bow to the will of events too strong for her to cope with. “But you must never ask me to marry that man!” cried Dorothy. There went & tremor through her words that marked how deep of root was the feeling that prompted them. *“I couldn’t, wouldn't marry him| Before that I would die— yes, end dle again! You must not ask 1t1” and she lifted up her face, all wrung with pain and anxious terror. “I ‘shall never ask it!” declared Mr. Harley; and he spoke stoutly, for the worst was over and his heart was com- ing back. This gave Dorothy a better confidence, and she began to hope that things in the end might come falrer than they threatened. “No,” repeated Mr. Har- ley with even greater courage, and smoothung her black, thick hair in & fath- erly way, “you shall never be asked to marry the scoundrel. That I promise; and let him do his worst.” And now, when both were measurably recovered from the shame and the shock of it, Mr. Harley began to elaborate. He went no further, however, than just to point out how nothing was really required of Dorothy beyond th common courte- sies good women cxhiblt to what men the le chances of existence bring into their society. He sald nothing, ask- ed nothing concerning her love for Rich- erd; he appeared to oonsider that love admitted, and found no fault with it What he impressed upon Dorothy was the present danger of her love's display, and how his safety rested upon her not meet- ing with Richard for a space. Surely that might be borne; it would not be for long. Given room wherein to work, he, Mr. Harley, would find some pathway out. Also, it would be unwise to say aught of what had taken place to Dorothy’'s mother. Mr. Harley and Dorothy would keep it secret from both Mrs. Hanway- Harley and Senator Hanway. Storri would not broach the subject to Mrs. Hanway-Harley; he could not without re- vealing more than he desired known. ‘Nor will the rascal do more,” ob- served Mr. Harley, with the hope of add- ing to the fortitude of Dorothy, *‘than come here now and then to dine or sit an hour. That is all he will count upon; and before he seeks anything nearer I'll have him under my foot as now he has me under his. When *z hour comes,” concluded Mr, Harley, ripping out a sud- den great oath that made Dorothy start n her frock, “there _will be no saving limits in his favor. il apply the torch and burn him itke so much refuse off the earth.” When Mrs. Hanway-Harley endeavored to break Dorothy to the yoke of her am- bitions concerning Storri, sparkled eand blazed and wept and did those divers warlike things that ladies do when engaged in conflict with each other. Dorothy, down in her heart, attach- ed no more than a surface importance to the efforts of Mrs. Hanway-Harley; and t was the reason why on those fierce occasions she only sparkled and blazed wept. Now, be it known, what Mr. Harley told her seared like hot iron; t he, asked of kindness to Storri and » fo Richard cut lfke a knife; and 3 re was mever tear nor spark to show throughout. She walted cold and white and steady. Dorothy was con- ced of her father's danger without owing its cause or what form it might take; and she filled up with a resolution to do whatever she could, saving only the acceptance of Storri and his love, to buckler him against it. Nor was this difference which Dorothy made between Mrs. Hanway-Harley and Mrs, Harley > be marveled at; for just as a mother erts more influence over a son than d his father, so will a father have weight with a daughter beyond any that might possess. hile Dorothy remained firm and brave s Mr. Harley revealed hie troubles and , she broke down later when self in her own room. She she must be alone. began to come r in such slow fashion that she en time to fully feel the ignoble to which she had fallen. ¢ see the man whom she adored; meet—with politeness even if and transpired To one of Dorothy’s spirit ness there dwelt in this an in- ss, of which Mr. Harley cky coarseness of fiber escaped 1g herself dn the bed, Dorothy burrowed her face in the plllow and gave vay. It was the happiest d have had; dried, and in which was sidered what she had to do. when the the calm of their afterglow, Oh! sorrow! Dorothy shivered; her sther was the ally of her enemy. How srothy hated and feared that black and savage man! What fiend's power must he possess to thus gain a fearful mastery over her father! What could be his secret tipped with terror? Dor- othy s c again buried her face as though would hide herself from any biasting hance of its discovery. When Dorothy wag with Mr. Harley she had been in & maze, a whirl. Wrap- ped in a cloud of fear, she had reached out blindly through the awful fog of it and seized upon the dear fact of Rich- ard. By Richard she held on; by Rich- ard she sustained herself. She entertain- ed no quaking doubts as to his loyalt: loyal herself, as ever was flower to sun, to distrust Richard was to doubt the ground beneath her little feet. In her innocence, she feit that sublime confi- dence which is the fruit, the sweet pur- pose, of a young girl's earliest love. Dorothy must write Richard a letter; she must tell him of the sag gap in thelr happiness. Yes; she would put him in possession of the entire story so far as it was known to her. He owned a right to hear it. Must his heart be broken, and he not learn the secret or know the author of the blow? When Dorothy was again mistress of herself, between sobs and tender show- ers she blotted down those words which were to warn Richard from her side. His love, like her own, would go on; there was to be no final breaking away. It was faith in & dear day that should find them reunited which upheld Doro- thy through the ordeal of her letter; her prayer was that the day might be close at hand. Her letter finished, Dorothy, late as was the hour, sent for Bess; she must have some one’s love, some one’'s sympa- thy to lean upon. Bess came; and, saying no more than she was driven to reveal ot her father's helplessness and Storrl’s baleful strength, Dorothy told Bess what dolorous fate had overtaken her. “I've written Richard to go to you, Bess,” whispered Dorothy at the woeful close. “Have him write me a letter every day; I shall write one to him. I didn't promise not to write, you know, only not to see him. But you must not let Richard go to Storri, that above all. Poor Richard! he is very flerce, and if he were to arouse Storri’s anger it would pro- voke him to some awiul step.” There was & man of robust curiosity who once suggested that it would prove entertaining if one were to lift the roofs off a city as one might the upper crust off & ple, and then, looking down into Dorothy * THE SAN FRANCISCb, SUNDAY CALL.. WA the very bowels of life, observe what plots and counterplots, defeats and tri- umphs, loves and hates, pains and pleas- ures, losses and gains, hopes and despairs, honors and disgraces belonged with the struggles of everyday humanity. It is by no means sure the survey would repay the cost of making it, and the chances run heavily that the student would gather more grief than goou from the lesson. Proceeaing, however, by the hint of con- tradiction furnished above, had one, at the moment when Storri was binding Mr. Harley by fetters wrought from the metal of Mr, Harley's own fearful appre- hensions, glanced in upon Richard, he would have found that worthy young gentleman seated by his fireside, sooth- ingihimself with tobacco smoke, and rev- eling in thoughts of Uorothy. And the cogitations of Richard, if written down in words, would have read like this: ““Why should I defer a denouement that will rejoice them all? Dorothy loves me —loves me for myself, and for nothing but myself. Who could have offered deep- er proof of it? Bhe has come to me in the face of her mother, in the face of poverty; she is willing to abandon every- thing to become my wife. And if her mother objects—as she uoes ooject—why not cure the objection with a trifle of truth? I am not seeking to make a conquest of Mrs. Hanway-Harley; that tremendous ambition does not claim me. Iam not to marry her. W.at she thinks, or why she thinks it, should not be so important. It {s Dorothy whom I love, Dorothy who is to be my wife—none but Dorothy. No, I'll end a farce which no longer can defend its own existence. To- morrow I'll seek out my intended mother- in-law, and make her happy in the only way I may. I trust the good news may not kill her! and Richard put on one of those grins of cynicism. In this frame Richard retired to bed and dreamed of Dorothy. His heart was en- joylng a prodigious calm; he would no longer play at Democritus; he would fill Mrs. Hanway-Harley's soul with radl- ance, restrain to what extént he might his contempt for that radiance and the reason of it, and with Dorothy on his arm march away to bliss forever after. No, he would not have Dorothy to the altar within the moment following the enthronement of Mrs. Hanway-Harley’In the midst of that splendid happiness he plotted for her. He was not so preecipl- tate. Dorothy should have a voice and a will In fixing her marriage day; most young women had. But he would advise expedition—nay, he would pray for speed in the matter of that wedlock; for every hour that barred him from his loved one's arms would seem an age. Thus dreamed Richard. And in the irony of fate, even while Richard was coming to these sage, mot to say dell- clous, decisions end giving himself to these dreams, Storr! was raving, Mr. Harley was cowering, and Dorothy was weeping and wr..ng that they rhust not meet. When Richard arose in the morning, the first object his fond eye caught was that dear hand-write sprawling all across the envelope: “Mr. Richard Storms.” He tore it open, and this is what he read: “Dear One: As I write, my heart is breaking for us both. If I knew how, I would soften what I must say. Storrl has gained some fearful ascendency over papa. Never have I seen papa look so gray.and worn and old as when he came to me. He tells me that his safety, his life, depends on me. I am not to see you for a while. He says that if we meet it will mean his disgrace—his destruction. 1 can’t explain; I have only my love for you, sweetheart, and you must not fail me now. It will all come right, I feel sure of that: only vou must write me every day how dear I am to you, so that I shall have something to help my cour- age. Go to Bess, and belleve me yours with all my heart’s love. D.” Richard read and reread Dorothy's note. He did not ramp off into a temper; the first effects of it were to drive the color out of his face and steal away his appetite. His eye grew moody, and in the end angry. Some flame of wrath was kin- dled against poor Dorothy, who was so ready—that is the, way he put it to him- selfi—to sacrifice him in defense of her father. But the flame went out, and never attained either height or intensity as a flame of repute and standing among flam Richard was too normal, too healthy, too much in love. Besides, Dor- < note was warped and polka-dotted with small round scars where her poor tears had fallen as she wrote; and with that the flame of anger was quenched by the mere sight of those tear-scars: and Richard kissed them one by one— the tear-scars—and found, when he had kisseg the last one and tnen kissed it again for love and for luck, that he wor- shiped Dorothy the more for belng in trouble. And now Richard felt a vast vearning over her as though she were a child. Had she not fought a gallant war with her mother for love of him? Rich- ard was all put swept away on a very tide of tenderness. He would comply with Dorothy’s request; he would not press to see her; he would write her every day; he would love her more pas- sionately than before. Incidentally, he would go questing Bess. Richard did not permit himself to dwell upon Storrl. He knew him for the source of all this poison in his cup. In his then temper, he put Storrl out of his thought. He feared that if he considered that Rus- sian too long he would be drawn into some indiscretion that, while curing noth- ing, might pull down upon Mr. Harley, and in that way upon Dorothy, the ca- tastrophe that hung over their heads. There could be no doubt of the black measure of that catastrophe, whatever it might be. Richard, while no mighty ad- mirer of Mr. Harley, had been enough in that gentleman’'s company to realize that it was more than a common appre- hension which had sent him, limp and fear-shaken, to Dorothy begging for de- fense. The longer Richard pondered the clearer the truth grew that some deadly chance was pending against Mr. Harley, and that Storri held the key which might unlock that chance against him. Until he understood the trend of affairs, & hos- tile collision with S.orri would be the likeliest method by which disaster might be invoked. He must avoid Storrl. This prudence on Richard’s part went tremen- dously against the grain, for he was full of stalwart, primitive impulses that moved him to find Storri by every short- est cut and beat him to rags. He must keep away from Storrl. Also, he would defer those revelations to Mrs. Hanway- Harley which were to have filled her soul with that radiance and made her as ready for Dorothy’'s marriage with Rich- ard as was Richard himself. Those con- fidences could not ald now when it was Storri, not Mrs. Hanway-Harley, who stood in the way. And they might even work a harm. Richard went on his road to Bess, while these thoughts came fly- ing “thick ae twilight bats. & Richard found the blonde sorceress bending above a flower, and doing some- thing to the flower's advantage with a pair of scissors. As Bess hung over the leafy object of her solicitude, with her yellow wealth of hair coiled round and round, she herself looked not unlike a graceful, gaudy chrysanthemum. This poetic reflection, which would have been = creditable to Mr. Fopling, never occurred to Richard; he was too full of Dorothy to have room for Bess. However, the good Bess found-so fault with his loving preoccupation; she, too, was pensively thinking on poor Dorothy, and at once abandoned the invalid flower to console and counsel Richard. “For you see,” quoth Bess, as though a call had been made for the reason of her interest in another’s love troubles, ‘I feel responsible for Dorothy. It was I who told you to love her.” This was not quite true, and gave too much blame or credit—whichever you will —to Bess; but Richard made no objec- tions, and permitted Bess to define her position as best pleased her. Bess lald out Richard's programme as - though she were his mother or his guar- dian; she told him what his conduct should be. He must write Dorothy a dally letter; there ought to be a world of love In it, Bess thought, in view of those conditions of present distress which sur- roundea Dorothy. “Her lot,” observed Bess, ‘is much harder than yours, you know!" Richard, being selfish, did not know; but he was for no dispute with Bess and kept his want of knowledge to him- self. Yes; Richard was to write Doro- thy every day; and she, for her sweet part, was likewise to write Richard every day. The good Bess, like an angel turn- ed postman, would manage the exchange of tender missives. Bess sald nothing about Storri’s com- ing visits to the Harley house or that he would insist on seeing Dorothy. She and Dorothy had been of one mind on that point of ticklish diplomacy. The bare notlon of Storri meeting Dorothy would send toe flery lover into a fury ‘whereof the end could be only feared, not guessed. Richard was to be told noth- ing beyond the present impossibility of meeting Dorothy. “And most of all,” sald Bess to Rich- ard warningly, ‘‘you are not to involve yourself with Storrl. Remember, should you and he have differences upon which the gossips can take hold, there will be a perfect scandal, and Dorothy the cen- tral figure.” Richard was horrified at Bess' picture. “And so,” concluded Bess, ‘“‘you must do exactly as Dorothy requests. Have a little patience and a deal of love, and tne cloud, be sure, will pass away.” ““While I am having jatience and love, I would give my left hand it I might bring that cobra Storrl to account,” sald ichard. ‘What was written concerning the mouths of babes and sucklings? Mr. Fopling sat with Bess and Richard while they considered those above-related ways and means of interrupted love. Mr. Fop- ling was experiencing an uncommon ele- vauon of spirits; for he had stared Ajax out of countenance—a notable feat—and sent the rival favorite growling and bristling from the room. Usually Mr. Fopling took no part in what conversa- tions raged around him; it was the rea- son of some surprise, therefore, to both Bess and Richard when, at the mention of Storri's name, Mr. Fopling's ears pricked up a flicker of interest and he betrayed symptoms of being about 'to speak. “Stow-w: exclaimed Mr. Fopling thoughtfully, as though identifying that nobleman, while Bess and Richard looked on as folk do who bdhold a miracle, “Stow-wy! 1 say, Stawms, why don't vou go Into Wall street and bweak the beggah? He's always gambling, don’t y’ know! Bweak him; that's the way punish such a fellah.” g « “Why! what a malicious soul y have grown!” cried Bess in astonishme! “Really, Algy”—Mr. Fopling’s name wi Algernon—*“if you burst on us in fti guise often, I for one shall stand in ter- ror of you!"” “But, weally,” protested Mr. Fopling, “if you want to get even with a fellah, Bess, just bweak him! It's simply awtul, they say, for a chap to be bwoke. As for this Stow-wy, if Stawms hasn't got the money to go aftah him, I'll let him have some of mine. You see, Bess,” con- cluded Mr. Fcpling, with a broad candor that proved his love, “I hate this cwea- ture Stow-wy." “Why?" asked Richard, somewhat in- terested in his unexpected ally. ““He spoke dewlsively of me,” and with that Mr. Fopling lapsed. Richard went slowly homeward, his chin on his chest, not In discouragement, but thought. The counsel of the vacuous Mr. Fopling followed him to ring in his ears like words of guidance. “Bweak him!” squeaked Mr. Fopling, feebly vicious. Since Mr. Fopling had never been known to think anything or say any- thing anterior to this singular outburst, the conclusion forced itself upon Richard that Mr. Fopling was inspired. Nor could Richard put Mr. Fopling and his violent advieé out of his head. “Money is the villain's heart's-blood!” thought Richard. “I'm inclined to con- clude that Fopling is right. If I take his money from him he is helpless—a viper without its fangs, a bear with its back broken!"” Richard put in that evening in his own apartments. Had you been there to watch his face, you would have been struck by the capacity for hate and love and thought displayed in the lowering brow and brooding eye. Richard smoked and considered; at eight o'clock he rang for Mr. Gwynn. That precise gentleman of stiffness and English immobllity appeared, clothed in extreme evening dress, and established himself, ramrod-like, In’ a customary spot in the center of the floor. There was a figure on the Persian rug whereon Mr, Gwynn never failed to take position, Once in place, eye as expressionless as the eye of a fish, Mr. Gwynn would wait in dead silence for Richard to speak. Mr. Gwynn had occupled his wonted spot on the rug two minutes.before Rich- ard came out of his reverie. Turning to Mr. Gwynn, he addressed him through murky wreaths. “I shall go to New York to-morrow.” “YVery good, sir,” sald Mr. Gwynn, and his back creaked in just the specter of a bow. ‘““When are the president and general attorney of the Anaconda to be here?” “Tuesday, sir; the eighth of the month.” shall return before that time.” “Very good, sir!” and Mr. Gwynn again approved the utterances of Richard with a creaky mandarin inclination of the head and shoulders. “They will arrlve on the eighth, Say to them that they must remain until the fifteenth, one week. On Thursday—the tenth—you will give a dinner in honor of Senator Hanway; it is to be fifty covers. The Anaconda people will come. T'll furnish you the completed list of guests when I get back.” “Very good, sir.” “You may go.” “Yes, eir; you aré very kind, si and the austere Mr. Gwynn creaked himself out. Richard was left with- his thoughts, while the silent Matzal, who had heard the word New York, began packing what trunks were needed for the journey. Storri was ruthlessly eager to get some taste of his great triumph, and came that same cvening to the Harley house. Sen- ator Hanway had been detained by a night session, and the quartet—Dorothy, Mr. Harley, Mrs. Hanway-Harley, and Storri—sat together at dinner. Dorothy, pale and still and chill, was like a girlish image made of snow. There was a queer look of fright and shame and horror all in one about her virgin eyes. How she got through the dinner she could not have told, and only her ‘love for her father held her up. Mr. Harley was in no liveller case; and, albeit he drank much more than usual, the wine put no coler in his muddy cheek nor did it cure its flabbiness. To sit at his own table and tremble before his own guest might have wasted the spirits of even a hardier man than Mr. Harley. Dorothy was In agony—a kind of despalr of shame, eating nothing, say- ing less, and this attracted the shallow attention of Mrs. Hanway-Harley. ““What makes you so gloomy, Dor- othy?’ she asked. Mrs. Hanway-Harley was in most cheerful feather. A noble- man at her table, and though for the fortleth time, was ever fresh and delight- ful to Mrs. Hanway-Harley. ‘“You are not il1?” Then, with arch politeness to Storrl, “She has been out of sorts all day, Count, and given us all the blues, I was delighted when you came in to cheer us up.” “It is to my great honor, madam,” re- sponded Storrl, smiling and fixing Dorothy with that beady glance which serpents keep for what linnets they mean to tascinate and swallow, “it 1s to my great honor, madam, that you say so. I shall tell my Czar of your charming goodness to his Storrl. If I might only think that the bewltching Miss Dorothy was also glad, I should be in heaven! Truly, it would make a paradise; ah, ves, why not!” As Storrl threw off this languishing speech, Dorothy could feel his eyes like points of hateful fire piercing her satirically. It taught her vaguely, even through the torture her soul was under- going, that composite sentiment of pas- sion and cruelty felt for her by this Tartar in evening dress who mixed sneer with compliment in all he said. Dorothy could have shrieked out in the mere torment of it, and only the sight of Mr, Harley, broken and hope- less and helpless and old, gave her strength and courage to refrain. Storri departed on the heels of dinner to the profound regret of Mrs. Hanway- Harley, who pressed him to remain. The Russian was wise: he must not attempt too much. Dorothy should have respite for a week. In seven davs he would again take dinner with the Harleys. Dor- othy would have employed those scven days in thinking on the perils to her father which he, Storri, could launch; she would have considered how he, Storri, must be courted and flattered and finally loved to insure her father's safety. It was victory as it stood. Was he not compelling the proud Dorothy to receive his compliments, his glances, his sighs, his love? Was not Richard, the detest- able, excluded, and the Harley door clused fast in bis face? Ah! Storri would impress upon these little people the ter- rors of him whom they had affronted! He would cause them to mourn n bitter- ness the day they heard first his name! Sterri, in midswing of all these com- forting ruminations, felt a light hand on his 'arm. He was sauntering lelsurely along the street at the time, and had not Jjourneved a block from the Harley house. Sterri started at the touch and wheeled. “What'” he exclaimed, it you, my San Reve? And what fetched you out, *s0 ccld an evening?” Storri attempted a manner of light and confident assurance. Somehow, he did not” altcgether attain it; a sharp ear would have caught the false note in his _tones which told of an uneasiness he was trying to conceal. . That one whom Storri addressed as San Reve end wha, following the touch that startled Storri, had taken his arm, was a weman. In the dark of the winter even- ing nothing could be known of her, save that she was above a middie height. “Yas; it is 1, Sara,” said the woman, in a pure centralto. “‘Come with me to- night, Storri: I have not seen you for four days.” “We are pleasantly met!" cried Storri, still affecting an acquiescent gayety. “And is it not strange? I was on my way to your fond, sweet presence, San Reve. Yes, vour Storri was flying to ycu even no All of which were lies, being leaf and stalk of that uneasiness which rang so falsely in his voice and manner. Still, if Mademoiselle San Reve took notice of his wdpsincerity, she kept the fact to herself. torri drew her hand further within his arm, and the two walked slowly onward, while the street lamps as they passed merged and separated and again merged and separated théir shadows as though the pair were agreeing and disagreeing in end'ess alternation. Richard, the next day, de- parted for New York as he had planned. Sending Matzal and h's lug- gage to the hotel, Richard on his arrival drove straight from the station to Thirty, Broad. He glanced at a card as he en- tered the elevator. “Tenth floor!” was his word to the resplendent functionary in gold and blue who presided in the elevator. “Tenth floor!” cried the resplendent functionary in the sing-song of a seaman taking soundings and calling the marks, and the elevator came to a kind of bounc- ing stop. *‘Mr. Bayard?' inquired Richard. “Second door to th’ left,” sang the blue and golden one; then the iron door clashed and the cage flew on. Richard entered a reception room, and from this outer harbor, like a newly arrived ship sending up a signal, he dispatched his card to Mr. Baynard. Under “Mr. Richard Storms’ he wrote the words, “‘son of the late Mr. Dudley Storms.”" The stealthy, whispering individual, who spoke with a hiss and scrutinized Richard as he took his card with a jealous inten- sity which might have distinguished a hawk in a state of half alarm and whole suspicion, presently returned. His air was altergd to one of confidence. “You are to come in, please!” he hissed like a respectful snake. It was two hours later, five o'clock, ‘when Richard emerged from that private room of Mr. Baynard's. Taking the car- riage which had walited, he returned to the station and caught a train for Wash- ington. A message went to Matzal noti- fying that Mongol of what changes had been determined on in the destinles of himself and the I g It was the following morning at the hour of eight. Richard called for Mr. Gwynn. When that severe personage had taken his proper station on the rug, he rolled his piscatorlal eye on Richard as though inviting notice. The latter young gentleman was improving himself with coffee, now and then pausing to thought- fully glance over a roll of names. “What were the last quotations on Anaconda stock?” demanded Richard, still contemplating the names. “Common, two hundred and eleven; pre- ferred, two hundred and seventeen, sir.” and Mr. Gwynn creaked by way of end- ing the sentence. S “Here are the keys to my boxes in the Colonial Trust. Here also are the names of fifty New York banks. Please establish a credit of two millions In each of them— one hundred millions of dollars in all. Use Anaconda stock. Bring . me certified checks for the one hundred milllons, with a statément from each bank showing what Anaconda shaves it holds as security. I think you understand. I want one hun- dred milllons instantly available. You will go to New York at once and make the arrangements. Day after to-morrow meet me in Mr. Bayard's rooms, Thirty, Broad, at 3 o’clock p. m., with everything I have outlined.” “Very good, sir; you are very kind, sir,” creaked Mr, Gwvnn. CHAPTER XIIL San Reve Gave ‘Warning. Had you, at the time Richard visited that gentleman, written Mr. Bayard a letter, you would have addressed it to Mr, Robert Lance Bayard, and any one who saw you do it would have gazed In wonder and respect to think you were upon terms of personal correspondence with thal blinding meteor of speculation. Mr. Bay- ard sat in his rooms at Thirty, Broad, like an astrologer in his tower cell: he con- sidered the stars and cast the horoscopes of companies. That done, he took profit- able advantage of his prescience. In the kingdom of stocks Mr. Bayard's position was unique. He, like Napoleon, was without a model and without a shadow. He constructed no corporations, shoved no companies from shore; he stood at the ticker and took his money off the tape. Whenever he won a dollar he had risked a dollar. In person Mr. Bayard was slim, elegant, thoroughbred, with blood as red and pure of strain as the Dblood ‘of a racing horse. To gee him was to realize the silk and steel whereof he Wi compounded. There was vanity about him, too; but it was a Tregal vanity, as though a king were vain. His brow was full and grave, his face dignified, his eye thoughtful, and he knew men in the dark by feel of bark, as woodmen know a tree. He stepped about with a high carriage of the head, as might one who has prides well founded. His health was even, his nerves were trye; he owned a military courage that remalned cool with vic- tory, steady with deféat. It was these which rendered Mr. Bayard the Bourse- force men accounted him and compelled consideration even from folk most powerful whenever they would float an enterprise or foray a fleld of stocks. Did Oil or Sugar or Ste»l come into the street with purpose of revenge or profit, its first care was a peace treaty with Mr. Bayard. That was not because Oil or Steel or Sugar loved him, but because it feared him. The King might not hunt in Sherwood without permission of Robin Hood, nor Montrose walk In Glenfruin wanting the MacGregor's consent. In his youth—that is to say, almost a third of a century away—Mr. Bay- ard had been of open, frank and gener- ous impulse. He believed in humanity and relied upon his friends. Mr. Bay- ard at 60 was changed from that pose of 30 years before. Fe was cold and distant and serene in a cloud-capped way of ice. ITe trusted no one but him- self, took no man’s word save his own, was self-reliant to the point of bitter- ness and rife of proud suspicions. Also, he had carried concealment to the plane of art, and those who knew him best were most in the dark concerning him. And yet Mr, Bayard made a specialty of verbal truth and his word was a word of gold. It was not that Mr. Bayard decelved men, he allowed them to deceive them- selves. They watched and they listen- ed, and in the last they learned, com- monly at the cost of a gaping wound in their bank balances, that what they thought they saw they did not sce, and what they were sure they heard they did not hear; that from the beginning they had been the victims of self-con- structed delusions and were cast away by errors all their own. Once burned, twice wise, and the paradox crept upon ‘Wall and Broad streets, as mosses creep upon stones, that the more one knew of Mr. Bayard the less one was aware of. The feeling was expressed by a gentle- man rich in exchange exrerience when he said: “If I were to meet him in Broadway, 1 wouldn’'t believe it.” And that experienced one spoke well. For as the tiger, striped black and gold, is made to match and blend with the sun-slashed shadows of the jungle through which he hunts his prey, so was Mr. Bayard invisible in that speculation whereof he crouched, How the Storrl a most formidable factor, with this to add to the Iong-tpothed peril of it, that, although always in sight, he was never more unseen than at the moment of his spring. The change from faith and friendship and a genial warmth that had .taken place in Mr. Bayard and left him their rock-bound ppposites had its origin in the treachery of a friend. Mr. Bayard those vears bcfore was, In his stock sail- ing, beaten upon by a sudden squall of treason and lylng ingratitude: his na- ture was capsized, and those softer and more generous graces were spilled out. They went to the bottom, as things gold- en will; and they never came up. Mr. Bayard was betrayed by one who had taken his hand in friendship not the hour before—one who was his partner in business and had risen through his fa- vor. Struck in the dark, Mr. Bayard stood at the ticker and watched his for- tune of eight millions bleed away; when he dropped the tape he was two millions worse than bankrupt. It was that case- hardening experience which had worked the callous metamorphosis. “It has taught me caution,” was all he sald as the quotations chattered off the loss of his last dollar. From that hour of night and worm- wood, Mr. Bayard was another individ- ual. He gave men his acquaintance, but not his faith; he listened and never be- lieved; he had allies, not friends, and the limits of his, confidence i a man were the limits that man's interests. And yet in this arctic hardness there remained one generous spot. There was one name to retain a sweetness and a perfume of Mr. Bayard that one finds in flowers, and the perishing years had not withered it on the hillsides of Hhis regard. When Mr. yard went down on that day of storm afd the dark waters ot defeat -and bankruptcy closed above him, there had been stretched one hand to save. Dudley Storms was hardly known to Mr. Bayard, for the former was of your silent, retiring men whom no one discovers until the time of need. His sort was evidenced on this occasion. Fi= did not send to Mr. Bayard, he came, He told him by shortest possible sentences that his fortune was at his Mr. Bayard's disposal, to put him again upon his feet. And Mr. Bayard availed himself of the aid thus proXered; he regained his feet; he repaid Dudley Storms; and then he went on—and no more slips or treason- > ‘yt’f.@;\u\fl‘fi - founded setbacks—to pils up new mil- lions for himself. - Following that one visit of succor from Dudley Storms, he and Mr. Bayard were no oftener in one another’s company than before. The former retreated into his former reticence and the fastness of his own muititudinous affairs, coming no more to Mr. Bayard, who did not requira help. Dudley Storms was & lake of fire in & rim of ice, as somebody somewhers one sald of some one else, and llbore: under pecullarities of temperament ln trait-contradictions which you may h§° observed in Richard. For his side, ; Bayard, proudly sensitive, ‘whils he nev , forgot, never falled to feel in the edge o that saving favor done him by Dudley Storms the edge of a sword; and this served to hold him aloof from one who any hour might have had his life and for- tune, without a question, to do with as he would. Richard had never met Mr. Bayard, nor did he know aught of that gentleman's long-ago disasters, for they occurred In the year of Richard’s birth. But he had heard his father speak of Mr. Bayard In terms of glowing praise; wherefore, when it became Richard’s turn to know some- what the Ins and outs of Wall street, & dark interfor trade-region of which his ignorance for depth was like unto the depth of the ocean, and as wids, our young gentleman went Instantly in search of him. Had he beheld the softened aye of Mr. Bayard when that war-lord of the street first read his card, had he heard his voice as he repeated the line “son of the late Mr. Dudley Storms,” he might have been encouraged in & notion that he had not rapped at the wrong door. But Richard, in the antercom awaiting the return of that person of the serpent hiss, did not witness these phenomena. When he was shown into the presence of Mr. Bayard, he saw only one who for dignity and courteous poise seemed the superior brother of the best-finished gentleman he had ever met. “So you are the son of Dudley Storms,” sald Mr. Bayard, running his eye over the visitor as though looking for a conm- firmatory resemblance. Then, having concluded his scrutiny: “You are like him. Have a chair; tell me what I can do to serve you." Richard was taken with Mr. Bayard's words, for that gentleman managed to put into them a reassuring emphasis that was from nowhere save the heart. Thus led, Richard began by asking Mr. Bayard it he knew aught of Storri. “Storri? He is the Russian who helped the sugar people get their hold in Odessa. The oil interests have some thought of employing him in their affairs. What of Storri?” Richard explained the propriety of de- stroying Storri; this he did with an in- genuous ferocity that caused Mr. Bayard to smile. “The man,” observed Richard In con- clusion, “is no more than so much ver- min. He is a menace to my friends; he has intrigued villainously against me. I have no option; I must destroy him out of my path as I would any footpad or any brigand.” Being primal in his instincts, as every great man is, Mr. Bayard, at this hostlle declaration, could not avoid a quick side- glance at Richard's door-wide shoulders, Pict arms, and panther bulld. Richard caught the Jook, % “Oh, if it might have been settled in that way,” cried he, “I should have had his head wrung round ere this! “You will readily conceive,” observed Mr. Bayard, after musing a bit, “that I keep myself posted concerning the least movement of the least man who comes speculating Into stocks. You may take it for granted that I know a trifle or so of your Count Storri. To be frank, he and Mr. Harley, with Senator Hanway and five others, are preparing for some movement in Northern Con- solidated. I don’'t know whether it is to be a ‘bull’ or a ‘bear’ movement. or when they will begin. Those are mat- ters which rest heavily on the finding of that special committee of which Senator Hanway is the chief. Do you know when the finding may be looked for? Can you tell me what the com- mittee will report?” Richard could not bring himself to speak of Senator dlanway’s confidential assurances of a white report for North- ern Consolidated. From those assur- ances he was sure that the pool medi- atated a “bull” campalgn, but he did not say so since he could not give his reasons. Bayard came to anxietles. “Senator Hanway,” went on Mr. Bay- ard, “has privately told a number of people that the report will favor the road.” Richard was struck by the cool full- ness of Mr. Bayard's information. It was likewise impressive to learn that he was not the only one in Senator Hanway's confidence. On top of Rich- ard's wonder Mr. Bayard piled another marvel. ‘He declared that he did not believe the word of Senator Hanway. “He is fox for caution,” quoth Mr. Bayard, “and I cannot think he told the truth. Believe me, the committee's report will tear Northern Consolidated to pieces. The market has been ex- ceedingly strong since the beginning of the year. He will watch and plump in that adverse report the moment gen- eral prices show a weakness.” Richard, while taken by the reason- ing of Mr. Bayard, was not convinced. However, he asked Mr. Bayard what might be done. “Remembering always,” said Rich- ard, “that the one purpose I have in view is the overthrow of Storri.” “Every member of that pool,” re- turned Mr. Bayard, “has made himself fair game. A pool is like a declaration of war against the world; the pool it- self would tell you so. And speaking of the pool, you understand that the eight are bound together like a fagot. You can’t break one without breaking all; if Storri fall Mr. Harley, Senator Hanway and the others fall Richard could not forbear a smile as he recalled how Mrs. Hanway- the protection Harley had sald that her ' only objection to him was his lack of riches, and how, should his for- tune one day mend and measure up with Mr. Harley’s Dorothy and he might wed. The peculiar humor of those possibilities which the situation offered began to ad dress itself to Richard. Was not here chance to remove Mrs., Hanway-Harley's objection? S - “Since they are open game,” sald Rich- ard, “I see no reason why tne whole oc- tagonal combination should not be wiped out. Indeed, thers might be a distinct advantage in it,” he concluded, thinking on Dorothy: “There would be a distinct advantage of several millions In it returned Mr Bayard, who was thinking on dollars and cents. Then, as might one who, having millions Bt?{;u!" “They are where you may put your hand upon them,” returned Richard, o any hunting of this vermin Storri.” (Continued Next Sunday.) that were left by | \"\ \h‘»