The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, March 11, 1906, Page 5

PRESUMPTUOUE® young coxcomb! Does he think that his money gives him & to make love rlotte Pear- right T e 1 there's nothing to be rmed the Charlotte’s slen- figure stiffened. The brown eyes flamed with a de- fiance very like the to demand justice™ ere are nothing but m on every side. because of that old grudge s father you forbid him the see to it that he stays jackanapes,” The st eks were flushed bright And I hed colonel looked as Charlotte's ¢ ber St eyes were very as the e deep tones of twelve a mot at high speed an regard his Charlotte had been in earnest. She ed her bluff, choleric father, but he 1d have known it was impossible d a daughter of two-and-twenty arry a man of irreproachable char- who was able and anxlous to her. is so daring!” she had objected. but there 18 no other way—and 1 love you so!” Osbérne pleaded, and the look in his eyes had melted Char- 's last lingering scruple. The machine whirled along at a reck- 5 less pace, spinning along the smooth, road, taking the hills with dizzy repidity. “What if something should happen?” suggested Charlotte, nervously, as they bre: ed a long slope, and turning ab- r dipped suddenly down a dan- gerous descent. Robert Osborne seized the lever of the hand brake and jammed it on. Something is going to happen,” he re- tugned, blissfully. His eyes, watchful were on the road before him, left nothing to be de- and alert, but his voice sired I didn’t mean that,” said Charlotte, with a radiant smile. “I meant As they swung around a curve at a desperate pace and struck a bit of level road, Osborne let out the machine an- other notch and Chgrlotte's voice trailed into silence the car gave a quick jump and tors-along the firm, level surface. “Whatever you mean—it won't make any difference, dear’—the motor beat continuous accompaniment to .Os- “You are mine and I Do you hear, borne's voice. won't give you up. Mine. dear?” The fresh air rushing past cooled her face—and fears. She looked, with a sense of security, at the tense, watch- RISON’S o R EeRLESS <« v e FACE - ful figure beside her. Yes; she was glad she had come, but—— “It is daring!” she sald softly agaln. * The car dashed -on, speeding past wooded slopes, scudding through the bright patches of moonlight. As they ‘whirled around a short curve the scat- tered houses on the outskirts of a town came Into vie They drove quietly through the deserted streets. A low- set, yellow light twinkled from the vicarage window—all the other houses ——BY INA WRIGHT HANSON were darkened. Osborne drove cau- tiously up to the little lighted house. The door was opened by a ruddy, kindly featured old man who, greeting them cheerily, ushered them into a pleasant, homelike room. “This is very irregular,” he sald, half smiling, half disapproving. “It is only because I have known you, Robert, ever since you were born, and baptized you and confirmed yeu‘ that I am will- ing.” Breaking off abruptly,’he took Char- lotte's hand in his and regarded her searchingly. “Are you quite sure you will have nothing to regret in this hasty mar- riage?” 2 “I am sure.” Charlotte blushed crim- son, but met his eyes unflinchingly. Then the minister opened his prayer book and Robert took her hand in his and drew her gently forward. “I, Robert, take thee, Charlotte—" Just then there broke on the stillness of the night a sound that froze the ‘words on his lips. It was the continuous rapid beat of a motor car, and they knew it at once for what it was—the roar of the colo- nel's automobile. Charlotte's face went white with tere ror and Osborne’'s mouth settled in one grim straight line as he dashed to the door. The distant trees loomed specter-like in the white glare of the headlights as the car dashed toward the vicarage. ‘With one quick swing of his powerful shoulders Osborne grasped Charlotte and lifted her Into his car. “Come with us! Get into the car!” he commanded the minister desperately. For an instant Osborne thought he would not do it—and then, unexpected- ly, the old man climbed ln(o the waiting automobile. Osborne bounded on the step, seized the steering wheel and started the car. The throb of the motor deepened and the car was off with a bound. “Now go on! Finish it!" demanded Osborne. “This is most irregular,” demurred the minister. He stopped—hesitated— then glanced back at the approaching headlights and the ministerial shoulders squared in a decidedly unministerial fashion; the miuisterial jaw set itself stubbornly; the ministerial eyes re~ garded the young couple before him sympathetically. “I am ready,” he sald. “I, Robert, take thee, Charlotte” in Osborne’s firm volce, to the rhythmiloal Accomp;nlm‘zc of the chug, chug of the motor. “I, Charlotte, take thes, Robert,” while the wind blew fresh In thele faces and trees and houses raced swift- Iy by. "vghm God hath joined together, let not man put asunder.” And Robert Osborne leaned toward his wifs and kissed her on the lips. The pursuing car had been following hard on the retreating red disk of the runaway motor, and when it slowed down the other car was beside It “Just in time,” cried the colone] tri= umphantly. He was breathless and dis- heveled and still bubbling with wrath. The minister smiled at him cordially, “Yes, sir,” he responded genially, “Just in time, sir, to give them your bless- A his Martha shing g d, but e rich and the poor; ¢ for all his chatter to expect onversa- suppose e been wondering v o often 1s, and d over the level cool shady path hey were § streamlet e leaped f . e feet of the ferns; wi ds gave out a soath e. A few steps away was garish nine, but here, shade and coolness, quiet. Martha's troubled heart ghtened, and she smiled winsomely into Bertie's face. W * she queried. “Because I am going to ask Yyou something, and I wanted to choose the best place for it. This is the best of all, fsn't it, beloved? I want you to me, Martha, to-night, and go away with me, or not go away. I don't know that I care anything about seeing New York anyway.” You want me to marry you to-night hat by Christm. or Septem- r to-morrew, you might change mind? Thanks for thé compli- ment, and no, thank ¥ou, for the offer.” Bertie's face was white. She was savagely glad she had hurt him. ie might realize a little of her suffering. “Do you think I want a husband who changes his mind on a subject as many times as there are hours in a day? What pleasure is there in you, Bertie Harrison, and what confidence can one have? We were to read to improve our minds. You began with Willlam Tell —at the arrow scene; then you took a chapter in ‘Merchant of Venice'; next you thought Burton Holmes' travels—" “Don’t, Martha,” Bertie interrupted. “Probably I shall thank you some time; but just now I can’t stand any more than a homeopathic dose.” It Bertie had got furious or if he had cried—she felt as if she would not have been surprised to see with her, - him cry like any girl—she could have kept on pelting him with. her sharp words; but to have him quiet and white—that was something she could not bear. Tears dropped on the Martha ‘Washington in her cold hand. “Forgive me, dear, I didn’t mean: “Pardon me, Martha, I think you meant exactly what you said. In the flash of your words, I see what 1 won- der I have failed to discover hereto- fore. Isn’t there a saying that if you can properly diagnose a case, the cure is half effected? If I overcome the fault, and make a man of myself, may 1 expect your fayor, Martha?” She shook her head. e “I can’t have any faith in you, Bertie, but after all you are not to blame. You can’t be different; there are too many odds against you. . It's hereditary—my father knew your father well. Gemini is your birth‘sign—two forces pulling in opposite directions; then your for- tune stands in your way, and even your name. You could never expect a Na- poleon of a Bertie.” “Can any good come out of Naza- reth?” he sald, bitterly, “but you re- member the Best did come out of Naza- reth. If you cared for me—" “I care, Bertie, if that's any consola- tion. I could wait years for you, but “Well, that's enough.” Bertie threw up his cap, and caught it as it came down. The red came back into his smooth cheeks. “Now I will fare forth r\ i BY LOUISE J. STRONG. - RS. SPENCER was hanging up er sunbonnet af her son to the kite with out calling early, e Mr n before be replied evasively p come in to break- fes y-haired man . tace e red e No; said he'd the porch © did bis supper. Mos of them are not so modest, sleeping g on the whe had a bed enee . er kindly ature. “A t always safe to 5 . the barn,” she added ¢ & pretty decent old f ow rt, discordant laugh € pLe instant John stare “He doesn’t use e wanted to do something 5 sniffed and added to the had fixed a ecun of she dropped two whether com- f on the edge t of the open do e sight of aroused in their She scarcely noticed tly, with little Sammy t out on to the fronmt ad we took the old fellow in,” ered. “Makes her think of Lizzie nodded, understandingly. s her son came out on his way to store Mrs, Spencer put the boy wn and took a roll of bills from her n and handed it to him, saying: for the interest, the money loaned it to mother! Who his eyes 1 couldn’t borrow it!" wed with relief, I didn't borrow it. TI've sold the mbstone.” She put up & hand as he vould have spoken. “You know Mr. {ison wanted it when his father died. I sold it to him this morn for three- quarters what it cost, jus it stands I never ought to have put it up, with no gertainty that he was des It comes good now, though, for the in- what I got for i “Why, it'll put me right John cried. “But you ougt done it, mother; you thous of father's stone.” “I was a fool about it when he might be alive for all I knew,” she said with self-contempt. “I made self the laughing stock—what more do yo want?” she demanded suddenly of th tramp who had come 3 the house and paused as if to speak “I—I thought I might get a job. You said you had a grocery store,” looking at John. “I'd work for my keep till"— “It isn't likely he'd want an old tramp about,” Mrs. Spencer interposed brusquely. “No, I suppose not,” the old fellow assented, and scuffied the path. Mrs, Spencer watched him a few mo- ments, her face pale and lips twitch- ing, then she commanded harshly, “Samuel Spencer, come back here! You knew if you got in once I couldn’t let ygu g0 off that way! I'm an ola fool, Johnny, I suppose, but I can't bear to have your father straggling about the country like that, sleeping anywhere and eating any old taing. It isn't fair to you, son, but we’ll have to try to keep him.” “Father!” John and Lizzie cried to- gether. “I used to expect it at first” Mrs. Spencer hurried on, “but when I put up the stone I really thought he was dead, it had been so long. And I might have dejectedly down married, and been a bigamist!” she flared at the tramp, who stood in a downcast silence, “I might have been married this minute; I could have been —what then?” “If you'd been married again Harriet —I didn’t think you would, though—but , it you had, I'd never let you know I was alive. And I don’t mean to burden you; there's lots of work In me yet,” he quavered. “You don’t look it: and there was never any too much, at your best—but of course, you've got to stay., I less he can do errands, and mind the boy, Johnny.” John shook hands heartily, with bis unfamiliar father, whom he could not remember, introduced his wife and ex- hibited the child named for his sup- posed defunct grandfather. “You've got to clean up, and shave, and bave thet shag of hair slipped. There's some of your old duds upstairs, decent ones.” Mrs. Spencer laid down t;he law. then turned to John again. “I expect it'll raise a great racket, selling the tombs.one and all—and I couldn't have sold it if I hadn’t recognized him last night Johnpy. Dear knows what folkl She flashed scorn at the prodigal, who drooped shamefacedly, but with a twinkle in his eyes. be got some things at the depot,” lained meekly, when she stopped. “Things! 1 dldn’t know tramps car- ried baggage,” she snorted, “I'm not a professional tramp, enly in the way of running from Dan to Beersheba; that was always my failin vou know, Harrlet. But I'm'getting—' “You're getting too old and worn out to stand it, else’ you lkely wouldn't have come home now,” she interrupted a little bitterly. ¢ “You always had a good Heart, Har- riet,” he said gratefully. “I would go that last time, but I thought I was in for a good thing in mining out there, and when everything failed—yes, I know, everything always seemed to fail with me. " he interjected in an- swer to a look on her face, “when everything fafled I was ashamed even to write, 'and I kept going from one thing to dnother, thinking I'd do bet- ter, till the first I knew I was getting old and gray, and realized that I'd left you to tug along and raise Johnny alone. I'd never come back only—" “Only you couldn’t do anything el she put in again, unable immediately to forgive the long desertion. “And to think of you slaving putting up a tombstone for me, giving the little shaver my nam treated you dog mean, Harriet. volce trailed shakily into silence. “well, what's done's done,” she said, regarding him more kindly. “I don’t know as we can help ine way we' nd I don’t suppose it's always for you any more than for We'll make the best of it, won't we, Johnny? Your father can job about enough for his keep.” “Yes, that's so, fathe John laid a hand on the old mai shoulder. “We'll soon be Jjogging along as iIf you'd never been away.” “Bless your hearts, so you will take in the poor old good-tor-nothing tramp!” The bent shoulders straight- ened, he sprang nimbly up ti steps, seized Mrs. Spencer and kissed h soundly in spite of her shocked resist- ance, then grasped John's hand. “You didn’t let me finish about coming back, Harrlet—I got over being a fail- ure, I went up to the Klondike and caught up with the luck I'd always been chasing, and—and Johnny, my boy, you ¢an buy out the whole little town if you want to—and Mrs. Spencer, ma’'am, let's begin over again with the wedding trip we missed tne first time.” and and into the world, and show ‘you what a man’s will can do in spite of heredity and astrology and all the rest. You'll see, maid Martha.” This sudden change of spirit was so like variable : ertie that Martha sighed. “I'm sorry I can’t encourage you.” It was a year before news came from except I had been held there by force! Now you know whatil think of you, and I assure you, although I can guess the price 1 shall have to pay for the pleasure of saying so, it is cheap.” Don Q.'s angled face was yellow. His figure shook, “'Senor, you have spoken no man has ever spoken to me before,” said Don Q., at last. “There are many ways of conducting those little scenes which lie between this moment and your departure, By the time the moon has risen it will be hard to recognize El Palido.” There was & fierce significance in the last few words that any other time might well have made Gevil-Hay's heart turn cold. But now with his blood up and the hopelessness of his position apparent, he merely turned his back with a stinging gesture of repul- sl ou evil beast!” he repeated, “as long as I am not annoyed by the sight of you I can bear anything.” So Gevil-Hay turned his back nnd stared into the night. The noises be- low were hushed. The encampment was waiting for him—waliting—and for a third time temptation leaped upon him: And that was the worst spasm of all. When it left him it left him exhausted. His mouth felt dry, his brow clammy. He was still standing facing the opening of the cave, and after a pl\xue a voice broke the silence. “As you have a loaded revolver in your pocket, why do you not e it Why do you not shoot me down, senor?” “You know I could not,” replied Gevil-Hay comprehensively, “And are you not afraid of what is coming?” Gevil-Hay turned and held out the revolver. Don Q.'s face was a study. He took no notice of the other's action, but asked: “Because of your paroie?” He was answerod by another ques- tion. “How did you know about the re- volver?” “I instructed the man who gave it to you. I wished to see whether I had read you aright. Yet your inability to shoot me hurt you. Is not that so?” “I wish' I could do it now! At last there {8 no necessity for more talk be- tween Maim me and let me go or kill me! ' Only take away this revolver from me before I—" Don Q. took the pistol and latd 1t with deliberation upon the nblo beside him, then he spoke. “Senor,” sald he, “when I flnd one like you I do not spoll the good God's work in him. You are not the type of man that comes to harm at my hands, A man who can keep his honor as you have done is worthy of life. Had you shot me, or! r had you attempted to do so—for I charmed life of him who cares ghether he lives or dies—then .the 7 of your death would have been re- Wlfl"lhe posadas of Andalusia for genr erations.~ But now, take your life—yes, take it from my hands. “After tonight we shall see each other no more; but when you look back over. your life, senor, you will always remem- ber one man who, like yourself, was afraid of nothing, & man worthy to stand beside you, Don Q., once of the noblest blood in Spain. A man—" The brigand checked himself in his flood of florid rWy and Spanish feeling. “Adios, senor.” Two hours later Gevil-Hay was alone upon the sierras. When he runhnd Gib- raltar, wmch he dld In due course, he was surprised to find hi almost sorry to hear that the Spanish Government, goad- Qa on by ponderous British ta- tions, had deternlnod to cleanse the hml of the presence of Do Since then Gevil- Hay‘l ufo hu not been a, fallure. And some the midst nll&-wwfilmounteonm back to him mud, unscrupulous, gallant bri- respec| lu:ky -nvgn to win. t he had once been the absent Bertie. Martha might have inquired from his friends in her own city, but she was too proud. He had turhed from her as lightly, as easily, as he had always flitted from one phase of life to another. A butterfly, she thoyght, scornfully; why should she waste tears on him? So she spent her days among her flowers and books; and if her nights were not always peaceful, she gave no sign. At the year's end a thick packet came to her. With nervous, trembling haste, she tore off string and paper, and brought forth Bertie's diary. #4nd to think I doubted him," -she ; as she found her name on every page. He bad taken with him to New York one hundred dollars of his fortune, pledging himself not to touch another penny of it till a year had gone. He had sought service immediately, begin- ning with the most menial tasks—how his sensitive nature loathed them none knew better than Martha. He had kept at each employment till he found some- thing a step higher. At the end of four months he discov- ered a friend of his father's, who of- fered him a clerkship, and gave him freely all the information he needed. It was when he was established In this that he had made his code of rules. After office hours, a two-hour wilk, dinner, then study till 11, his bedtime. This was not to be varied fof six days. Sundays were to be free. BY COLIN S. COLLINS. 1TH a gesture of impatience El- der rose. After nine months on a foreign mission, the little flat seemed wonderfully homelike, and he had hoped for an even- ing of quietude. Probably it was one of the chaps who had heard of his return and who had looked him up with the best of intentions. It was all very kind of him, but Elder would rather he had remained away un- til the morrow, and it was with a slight frown that he threw open the door lead- ing to the hall He gave a start of surprise as he per- cejved a woman's figure silhouetted against the brighter light in the hall, but Eilder was accustomed to receiving strange visitors at all hours and he step- ped aside to permit her to enter. It was not until they were in the tiny sitting-room that the girl threw back her veil. Elder started back. “Erica,” he cried, ‘‘this is most indiscreet.” “You receive other women on business,” she defended, as she clasped her bands. “On business,” he repeated. “Surely you can have no business with a detec- tive.” ‘With a little cry, the girl sank into a chair. “Jack Brayton told me at the Benningtons’ that you were back,” she sald. “I could not sleep until I had seen you. I came on from there. I had gone to consult Mr. Bennington. I shall take only a few minutes.” Curiously Elder watched her, the wom- an he had loved for years. Versed in the play of expressions, he could see that it was something serious which had led her to violate convention, but he could pot imagine what had. brought her to k his aid. “1 suppose you know,’ she went on, “that Uncle Jim is dead.” “Mr. Maltby?’ he gasped. “Why, I saw him the night I lcn. He looked good for a dozen years.” “He was killed,” the girl went on. “There was an effort made to make it nmr a suicide, but the letter he was to have left upon the table was !unl by the Coroner to be a forgery.” “Have they any clew?' he asked, his professional interest aroused. “They say that Paul did it,” she sald, cryihg softly. “He was convicted yester- day.” 2 ““Convicted,” he “Why, Paul ‘would not have killed a fly.” . anere was a handwriting expert who qhmnenu. Paul was uncle's sole heir he was known to be in debt.” “I am beginning,” he wrote, “on Ma- caulay’s higtory. I swear not to take up anything else till these volumes are finished.” “Can he be strong enough, the dear, brave boy?" Martha wondered, as she read eagerly on; but it was when she was smiling over some whimsical, hap- py thought, written in Bertie’s happy .expression, that it came. “Failed!” on a dozen pages! Then one bore bravely a line from Gold- smith: “Our greatest glory consists not in never falling, but In rising every time we fall.”” After that was the continuation of the arduous routine. On the last page he had written, “If I do not win my Martha after all, I feel that I shall come somewhat nearer to deserving her.” . Another six months dragged by. The diary contained no clew to his address save New York City; so that Martha could not send him encouragement and loving messages of which her heart was full. She felt that she deserved the sus- pense, but it was fearfully hard to bear. When it seemed to her that she could endure it no longer, an ominous yellow envelope came to her. “Bert Harrison seriously ill in B— Hospital. Constantly calling Martha.” Even In her disttess Martha noticed “Bert,” not “Bertl mute tribute to his winning battle against birth signs, heredity and fortune. Less than & week later Martha sat SPELLING AND SUSPICION. “Have they taken an appeal?’ he ask- ed. “Surely the case will not be un- contested.” “There is an appeal,” she answered, “but Vincent, the lawyer, says he has no hope—that he cannot hope to contro- vert the expert's evidence. Can you help me?”’ She rose from her chair and held her hands toward him. “I can and will,”" he answered heart- ily. *“Believe me, Erica, before the next trial comes, we shall have the proofs geady and Paul will go free.” For a moment she looked into his eyes. Then she dropped her veil and turned away. “I must go now,” she announced. “Will you come to me to-morrow?” “l was there this evening,” he sald simply. “They told me you had gone out, but I heard nothing of the trial. I will come at 11" He learned little that was new in the morning. Paul Westcott was James ‘Westcott's sole heir. He had been caught in a hole in Wall street, and it was be- Heved that he had committed the murder in the hope that he might real- 1ze upon this fact to borrow the money to save his margins. A letter announc- ing the action as a suiclde was clearly shown to be a forgery, though a clever one, and the case indeed looked black. Elder came away from the house dis- heartened. He was certain that his friend had not committed the murder, but even to one of the best detectives in the country the cdse looked hopeless. He went to the lawyers and arranged for a copy of the testimony, and when that was forthcoming he shut himseif in his room to study it. At the end of a couple of days he locked the typewritten pages in his desk and gave himself over to his social du- ties. Elder was a detective through love of the work, net because it was neces- sary for him to earn his living in this fashion, and on those rare occasions when not engaged in a pursuit he was welcomed In fashionable homes. His reappearance in socfety was ac- cepted as being an acknowledgment that there was nothing to be done for Paul Westcott, for he was known to have been Erica’s suitor, and it was argued that if there was any hope he would have disappeared in search of the mur- derer. In spite of this, Erica seemed hopeful, and the trial. through political influence, ‘was pushed to appeal. Gordon Westcott, her cousin, was opposed to the haste, and argued vsolntlv against it, but he had always been hostile to Elder, and it was natural that he should obje¢t to any of thi latter’'s suggestions. s in the previous trial, the evidence hinged almost entirely upon the letter. ‘There was brief testimony to the effeam that Paul Westcott had been in danger trembling in the office of B—— Hos- pital, while a sw faced nurse talked to give her time to regain her control. “It was ‘Martha, Martha, Martha’ till Mr. Dean, his employer, decided to look through his belongings for a pos- sible clew. We found your name and address, and ventured to telegraph. He 1s rational now, but naturally extremely weak. You may see him, but not for long.” “How aid he get the fever?" quavered. “Overwork. Mr. Dean saw that he ‘was doing too much, but his advice was not heeded. Mr. Harrison would reply that in six months he would take a& vacation. Then came the great storm. Mr. Dean warned him, but he would walk for two hours, no matter what the weather. For dogged persistency to an idea, Mr. Dean said he never saw his equal.” The nurse’s keen eyes saw that Mar- tha's trembling lips had grown quiet, and she answered the smile in her wet eyes cheerily. But when at last Martha was by her lover’'s side, she was the weaker of the two. “T felt all day that you were coming, dear,” he sald, quietly. “You have ‘waited for me, haven't you? Filercely restrained sobs choked baak her answer, but she laid her head on Bertie's pillow, and he was conteat Next day they awaited the coming of the minister with prayer book and ring. Martha of being wiped out In the to prove motive. It was ghown upon his arrest he had been unable to nego- tiate loans, and had lost hesvily. Then the prosecution put in the evid of & handwriting expert, who ac the previous trial, and who learnediy the individual peculiarities M even in a forgery, will unconsciously be- tray themselves. Almost letter by letter he the formation of the charagters supposed last message with Paul's - writing, and with each fresh slide there was more firmly established in the of the jury the fact that Paul must written the letter. ‘With the letter the prosscution rested the case, and the defense began. Nides was the first witness, and, to the sur- prise of every person, he took his stand by the lantern which had figured sa spee- tacularly at both trials. He first flashed upon the screen half & dozen examples of Paul Westcott's hand- writing, and then in succession showed another hand displaying many ef the same characteristics. “You will perceive that the two men whose handwritings I have shown have many traits In common,” he sald, “but in his eagerness to prove guilt by angle and curve, the previous witness has neg- lected his orthography. “The first examples were those writtsn by the defendant prior to the commission of this crime. The ones last shown were written by his cousin, who studied under the same tutor in his uncle’s house. I now will show half a uozen examples of the late James Westcott’s handwriting, asking the jury to note that in every in- stance ‘until’ is spelled-properly, as it was in the examples shown of Paul West- cott's hand. Only in Gordon Westcott's letters will the word be found to be per- mtly misspelled ‘untill,’ as was the case in the forgery. “I also show a letter from Gordon ‘Westcott to a money lender, writien im- mediately after the murder, in which he calls attention to the fact that, as Paul Westcott could not inherit, the estate would be divided beween himself and his cousin Erica, and tnat then he would be able to make the deferred payments.” The defense rested its case, and as soon as the opposing counsel had summed up the jury brought in a verdict of “Not gutity,” and Gordon Westcott was placed under arrest. Erica, her arm about her brother's neck, reached forward in the cab. “Fred,” &he said. I take back all 1 sald about not marrying you until you gave up your detec .ve work." “What's the imcenuve to give it uwp,™ he laughed, as he kissed her. “when a simple matter of spelling pays me so large a fee?*