The evening world. Newspaper, December 17, 1904, Page 6

' e ' WHO WAS JOHN PENDLETON? tleman passing attracted his attention. “Why. Pendleton, is it really you?’ he eaclain.ed, darting forward and setsing the other by the baad. “Eh! excuse me, but I think you have the advantage of me,” protested the other, drawing away. He was a tall man, fashionably dressed, with grayish hair, “Nonsense! You can't tell me that a couple of years is going to change a man #0 that you don't know him. |'m not a bunco steerer—just Richard Draycott, at your service.” Pendleton's face lighted up at once after he had taken a keen look PY the frank, boyish face before tim. “Why, (o be sure so it is Richard Draycott!” ‘ “I meant to look you up as soon as I bad got rid of pressing business,” chat- tered Draycott, unconscious of his companion’, listless manner, “A great deal bas happened since we met. The most important thing that can happen to a man has taken place. In short, I am engaged to be married, and unfortunately | just learned a few moments ago that my intended pride is missing.” But as Draycott spoke a messenger boy handed him a note, which he eagerly “It's all right,” he exclaimed, excitedly, “Came sooner than I expected.” He gat down on the bench beside his companion and spread the paper out on his knee. “Por reasons which [ will explain later,” he read, “we have gone to No, 1999 Grove street, Would be glad to see you to-morrow morning. Hum!” turning it over and over, “not much of a message.” Still to know where they are ig enough.” They parted, to dine together in the evening the best of friends, The message whieh had caused Draycott so much excitement lay upon the floor when they parted, and Pendleton, as his friend turned away, picked It up aad thrust tt In pocket. “This is beautiful,” he murmured, when he found himself in the street. “Il could not have hoped for any better luck. And.the money in his hands must Teach mine—nothing could be more satisfactory.’ And, rubbing his hands softly to himself, he jumped into the nearest cab and was soon rolling on his way uptown. i Meantime, Gertrude Etheridge, secure in the bellef that her note to Richard would bring him to see her in the morning, was trying to accommodate herself @heertully to the rather stuffy surroundings of the Grove dtreet boarding-house to which her mother had brought her. Her mother had fallen inio a light doze when Gertrude, looking from the win- , aw her father approaching the house, Unwilling to cause her mother the of another interview, she slipped down to Intercept him at the door. He ad- vanced eagerly to greet her, saying: “You eaw me and hastened to meet me?” He put his arm around her and pressed his lips to her forehead. “] hardly oxpected after that scene at the hotel,’ he began; “but your mother, qivere is she now?” “Bleeping upstairs,” said the girl, with her finger on her lips. “] want to have a few words with you alone,” he said, looking around him. “I may not have a chance soon again.” “f think we shall have this place to ourselves,’ she said, leading the way inte a ababby little reception room. “Thés is a mighty sorry-looking place to take you to, I have still some rights over you, my child, and it ds my business to see that you are not made a victim of your mother's madness." “Madness? She had r'sen tc her feet wth a shudder at this word and stood etasing at her father with widely dWated eyes, ‘Then you think"—— in an awed whisper. ay \" he sald, very earnestly, “I know—I can understand how dear your meother Is to you, and ft grieves me to the heart to even suggest that fie is out of her mind. But you deard what she sald, you have been hurried away to this @daciable place lo escmye a father whom she considers the worst Kind of a crim- fnat, and who but for a momentary weakness hag nothing to reproach himself with. Are these the actions of a sane woman” Again, he brought nis handkerohtef into requisition and passed ht daintily across his eyes. “But what do you intend to do? she asked, greatly moved. There Was cer- tainly some reason in what she had been saying. “IT should like a doctor, a friend of mine, to have a talk with her, She need ot even know what he has come for. Lf he decides that she js perfectly sane, I have nothing morc to add, But,” significantly, “it would not require a med- genius to discover that the poor woman's mind is unsettled.” “But, father, tt would be territie! I could not be parted from her.” “Parted! Who said anything about being parted from her? I do not think thie is anything serious. What she needs is a little gentle treatment to restore her to good heatth. A faw weeks in a doctor's oare-a specialist's—might bring her eround again." He spoke #o earnestly and withal so tenderly that Gertrude felt there must be reason in his words, and that her mother really needed a doctor's care, “1 believe you will act for the best,’ she said, placing her hands confidingly fm his! “I have thougtt that she acted strangely of late, though generally sie has been all that was kind wad goml to me.” George Btheridge, once in the street, glanced up and down, as if to assure himeelf of the exact altuation, and then set off at a brisk pace in a southerly direction. At the samatime a ronugh-looking little man who had been peering into & pawnbroker'’s window on the corner, and whose blue canvas suit, splashed with mortar, proclaimed him to be a mason, lurched away from his post of observa- tion and set off in the same direction. George Etheridge, having walked about a mile, turned into a narrow thorough- fare that was little more than an alley, and which led to the river, “Ah, this ia fortunate, The fellow is still bere,” muttered Ktheridge, as he paused before a green house that was if anything more Gisreputable looking than ite aeighbors, though it displayed a shining brass knocker in the middle of 9 front door, gayly conspicuous with scarlet panels of the most flery hue, He stood for a moment peering up at the sign painted on the transom, which announced the building as occupied by “Mr. and Mrs, Solaro, Doctor, Surgeon and Trained Nurse.” “am I right in coming here?’ Etheridge murmured. do? He dares not make a move against me.” ‘He entered the dingy dootway and confronted a frowsy, red-faced woman. Mrs. Solaro,” he said, politely. “Oh, it's you, ie it?” she replied, with something of a gasp. “Well, when I heerd you was shot by & man out at Marshfield | says" —- "F wo'll discum that all another time,” exclaimed the visitor {mpa- “Pshaw! What can he ad ant to see the doctor, that is, if he's sober, and [ believe this is enough én the day to find him so,” “Well, I guess he won't be any gladder to see you than I ba” grumbied the “Ijes t thought they couldn’t keep you wader ‘ground mee mounted a.short flight of unpainted stairs and pushed open a door top. The room was a dirty laboratory, and in the cemtre sted Dr, Isaac f was lean almost to emaciation, his bald head crowned by a gay purple skull cap with am orange (aasel. His parchment-like akin, drawn tightly the chedkbonea, made lis face resemble some grotesque Chinese mask, but black eyes set in deep hollows gleamed brightly with a certain vicious in- y ~ he turned, startled by Ethoridge’s entrance, he uttered a shrill ery and down on hia knees on the floor, wringing his lean hands and moaning over remains of a shattered glass that lay there, and regarding bis visitor with malevolent eyes. “Vell, I ’ought you vos deat," shrieked the doctor, “Now to business, for time ts precious,” said Etheridge. “I have a wife’— “Ig it possible? I never heard of dat before.” “t's enough that the lady exists She ig not well. She has some trouble with her head. Harmless, you know, but, just the same, she needs medient care and rest; and I thought that you would be the very man to take care of her.” “You, 1 see.” and the doctor's eyes flashed. ‘“‘Apd It is dis you call making money easy? You are her husband, and 40 she must know you t'rough and “Yrough She must ree your game and she will never agree to come here,” “and I tell you that there will be no trouble in the least,” urged Etheridge. #1 need not appear in the matter at all for the present. You are only to say that you come from Richard Draycott and she will fotiow you like a lamb. And there ia @ thousand dollars in it for you, Old Shylock, as soon as you hve charge of tig while she Ft lady. And, what's more, $.000 for the expenses of her living for a pear.” “Five thousand!’ The doctur cast an ecstatic look toward the ceiling his eyes closed as if he were weaving golden dreams. “Five thousand. That's what I said. and to show you that I am in earnest I pay you the thousand dollars to bind the bargain,” and he of am inner pocket and began to count thom caretully on his knee. Ten minutes later the doctor and his companion lighted before the little lodging- house on Grave atreet. “I am net going in with you,” Ktheridge whispered to Isaac Solaro, “The room ig om the second floor. You will knock and when admitted boldly state that you haye come on the part of Richard Draycott to take the ladies.” “Vot, dere is more one?” “Yes. I have a daughter, too, I thought I told you about her, With her you have nothing to do. I shall look after her,” The doctor did as he was bid, and after a moment went in and closed the door softly behind him, leaving Etheridge alone in the gloom of the landing. He was gone but a moment when he appeared on the threghhold and motioned for the husband to enter. Etheridge followed him, silent and wondering. He had a glimpse of the two women, his wife lying pale and silent on the sofa, and near on her knees, Ger- trude, her face buried in her hands, sobbing as if her heart would break. Etheridge ad slowly, and, unheeded by his daughter, stood for a mo- mont looking down on the woman whose life he had ruined. “We are too late, She has escaped you,” whispered the doctor, touching him on the arm, “And you have lost $5,000," murmured the husband, ag he bent his passionless glance on the face of nis dead wife. Mary Etheridge would never again be forced to flee from him tm this world She had passed forever beyond human reach! @ CHAPTER III. Duped! \ ERTRUDE! Gertrude!” and George Etheridge laid his hand gently on his daughter's shoulder as she kneeled, shaken with sobs, be- side her mother, The doctor had tiptoed out of the room and was waiting In the hall below. The girt at the sound of her father’s voice rose and held out her handg to him as if imploring his sympathy in her grief, Then, as he drew her toward kim, her tears broke out afresh. ‘ “I half expected !t. She always had a trouble of the heart,” he sald gently, as he smoothed her hair softly, his voice broken with emotion, “Now, yoa must come away, dear. This Is no place for you to remain in alone—a house like this. This gentleman | came with la a doctor, I wanted him, you know, to see your mother, He is a queer man, a little eccentric, but good at heart. You can remain with him and his wife until [ can find a proper place for you to live in. There are reasong why | cannot take you with me just now, but I will see you every day.” “I will do whatever you wish, papa,” she said. where I go or where I live?” Etheridge placed her in the charge of Solaro, who took her, unresisting, to his own filtny home. George Etheridge had meanwhile slipped up the stairs and entered the room where his dead wife lay. He looked at her for a moment and a momentary look of compassion passed over his cold, clear-cut features. ‘Ihnen he picked up @ shawl and laid it gently over her face, Then he began a systematic search of the room, being rewarded at last by finding ln a little steel casket the following half-finished letter; “To My Daughter Gertrude: My darling, I have taken steps to secure your fortane so that thal man cannot get hold of it, | feel that i may drop off at any moment, having suffered of late ‘’ vugh | did not tell you) witn my old heart trouble. I have placed this mor~; out of his reach. You will be informed where. I cannot state It tm th's note, for fear that it might fall into his hands” Here the not broke off abruptly and was not even signed, Eldridge turned It over again and again with a scowling face, “She must have been stricken down while ghe was writing this,’ he mut- tered, “1 regret that | shan’t be able to aid her In keeping the fortune out of ‘that man's’ hands, ‘That man’ bas urgent need of It in his business, and be- lieves !t will not be dificult to get it.” There had been an interested spectator of Gertrude’a departure in the doctor's company and who seemed quite a# curious over Etheridge’s movements, He was a epare little man in shabby clothes, hungry looking an seedy, who had been watohing the departure from the shadow of a fruit store near the corner. This little man had followed Btheridge before and thought he might discover someting of interest to himself In the other's doings. He was San Pendrick, clever private detective, and he had found something to interest him fn the acTlons of Mr. George Etheridge. He walked slowly along, casting a look up at the lodging-house In which Etheridge had disappeared, his forehead wrinkled with baffling thoughts. There were some familiar gestures about this well-dressed gentleman who had just bid- den the young woman adieu that set hts mind wandering back in the mazes of the past, peculiarities he identiGed with a certain criminal he had had dealings with in the days gone by. A certain counterfelter Who was supposed to have been kitted at Marshfield and whose body he had arrived too Mte to see and identify. “T muat find thie man Pendleton,’ he muttered. “It's curious how ha slipped through my fingera. He has been away from home every time I've visited Marsh. field.” If Detective Pendrick had waited a few moments longer before the house in Grove street he would have seen a hansom cab dash up befare the door and a young and excited man alight. Richard Draycott did not propore to-wait until the morrow to see his lady love sbecause of the shallow excuse that Mrs, Etheridge was ill, “I wish to see Mrs, and Miss Etheridge,’ he said to the man of all work who answered bis ring. “Well, they ain’t here now. They've went away.” “Away! And are you sure of that?’ asked poor Draycott. “T ought to be when I seen ‘em go off in a carriage bag an‘ baggage.” “Two moves in one day. What can it mean?” Draycott asked himself. “And they both eaid they looked forward to a long rest after having led a wandering life for so many years, Were they both mad?’ Then as be looked abuut him (n a dazed aad hopeless way a familiar face rose before him. “John Pendleton!” he exchaimed, wondering what chance had brought them to- gether in this strange part of the city. “Why, what are you doing here?” asked the other, “Listen, 1 rushed over to this wrotehed little todging-howge, where I had heard the Etheridges were. They had been there bat bad gone.” one $4 “What does it matter now “Where?” There is Another peculiar “So that seoumdrel of a husband canot get hold of it. 1 see’ and John Pen fleton tapped his shoe with his cans reflectively. “Yes, that is a goodly gum te “and she wants Kt placed as soon as possible.” “Then you have come to the right man for information. I, you know, or haps I never told you, deal a good deal in jovestments.” “Yes, you told me,” “Listen,” exclimed John Pendleton enthusiastically, “I said if I had mand of that sum I could make a million, A millfon! I could make thres or 7 “Safe?” . “Gate as 4 bank, and you shall come im on the ground floor. See here! fia y feid, where I live, is right on the edge of tho city. It will in a few years be joined to Greater New York. Very good. There is about @ squape mile or so of marshes on the outskirts to be had for a song. We will drain that land. We will make another Marshfeld—a city, We will cain millions out of as sure as the earth suretves, Zou shail come out Unane nant week and leek the land over, and io the mean not a word to any ona, You understand,” He epoke for a te same enthuslasiic vein mn ae & lady? ‘You, shail bo named fa har heust,” sald Seip Peashtes ta ecu @ @enument to ber enterprise.” ; : - — * = wale Se , ee a - Abii? * ine » ~ = oe «<4 Pa