Evening Republican, Volume 14, Number 61, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 12 March 1910 — The Quest of Betty Lancey [ARTICLE]

The Quest of Betty Lancey

By MAGDA F. WEST

OspyrigM, 1909. by W. 6. Chapmss. Copyright U Qnst Britain *

C/HAPTER XVl.—(Continued.) One bit of documentary evidence that materialized In the Hackleye home »t Cairo was bruited about in all the papers. On the fly leaf of a- French Bible, In a woman's hand—an odd hand with peculiarly forcible strokes—were these entries: "Married January 10, 1899, Cerisse Corella Wayne, daughter of Desiree and John Francis Wayne, and Hamleye Hackleye, third son, of Sir Walter and Lady Evelyn Hackleye. “Born, November Ist, 1900, to Cerisse Corella Wayne Hackleye and Hamleye Hackleye, a son, Walter Hamleye Hackleye, “Born, /October 15, 19.01, to Cerisse Corella Wayne Hackleye and Hamleye Hackleye, a daughter, Paula Cerisse Hackleye.” Gradually there became fixed more •ecurely the public Idea that Hackleye had murdered his wife. And the growing impression was that Hackleye and Haroourt were one and the same, but the most inexplicable of all was the dual resemblance between the two women, but at that the Man-Aperll-ta puzzled. Mark Flanders, the old attorney from whom Hackleye had rented the house at 94 Briarsweet place, was so upset t>y the sensation in which the staid old home was figuring that he nearly went ■wild. As it was, he cut short his European trip, and came home in a jiffy to see that the beloved old homestead was not whittled to bits by enterprising sleuths who were seeking further tor secret passages and subterranean Ways. Mrs. Desterle died early In the fall and her heart-broken husband took their accumulated savings gnd went home to Paris. Harold Harcourt was atlll stifling behind the bars of the jail. The British government 'didtidr come and lead him out of captivity. Harcourt’s wife was slowly getting better in the hospital to which they had removed her. There had been ahocking days of ravings so extraordinary that the nurses had stood abashed at the horrors revealed; there had been times when Mrs. Harcourt’s strength outranked that of even the strongest attendants, 'and in her violence she had essayed to kill herself, but oftenest she was weak as a sick kitten, and lay inert and helpless on her narrow bed, moaning as if within her slender frame fermented the anguish of the world. Philip Hartley came daily to see her. His quiet presence always had a calming effect upon,, the sick woman, and she seemed to 1 recognize him. Philip called first because the paper sent him, and yet, ns tlie months drifted by and the Wayne murder mystery was relegated gradually from a first to a second, and then to a fourth and even to a fifth page place in the paper, he went because he wanted to, not confessing to himself why. He couldn’t have told. He couldn’t resist the emotion that drew him to the sick woman. The most expert doctors were called In attendance. Mrp. Harcourt’s condition was most battling. One day there drifted in an aunt of the interne, a gray-haired doctor who had done missionary work in India for thirty-five years. The interne discussed the case with his aunt, and' took her around to see the patient. The old doctor—Fothergill was her name—examined the young woman closely. “I think, John,” she said, after she had looked at Mrs. Harcourt, according to the prescribed ritual for medicinal inspection, “that the poor little thing >as been drugged to death. They do Jthetet things beneath the tropic suns very frequently. There are weird drugs put to queer purposes over there. Where they stop at murder, even by alow poison, death in life is no more than a convenience to them if they so desire. I think she’s drug-sick. Give her light food, stimulants, and plenty of morphine. It’s the best reagent I’ve found for those Indiscriminate drugs that grow over there. Also a powder I’ll bring you.” The interne quoted his aunt to the attending physicians. And because of the fame of Dr. Fothergill, which had traveled even across the broad seas and the line of sex, they listened tp what she said. They followed Dr. Fothergill’B advice and slowly but surely Mrs. Harcourt began to improve. One day she roused from her stupor, aat up and looked at her nurses. "I do not remember,” she stammered. “I cannot remember, and—l’m glad, for the hurt has all g*>ne from here.” As she spoke she pressed one hand t» her heart, and the other to her head, There Philip Hartley found her when be came an hour later. He had a glowing bubch of asters for her—lavenders, whites, soft pinks—and ashes of roses. “Sweet flowers with their colors burned away," she murmured as she reached out for them. There was the same Innocent friendliness between these two pure-souled ones as there might have been between two seraphims. “Y»«»r flowers of the north countries seem so pale—and yet so pure,” she eontinuewr-as she burled her face within the shaggy petals. “But they have no perfumes ” f.”Ah, yes. they have,” denied Hartley “We have rose gardens here; too, and violet beds in springtime, and carnations In June, when the roses are sweet; and mignonette, and flowering almond, syringa, and sweet alyssum—are have our pprfumes, too, my lady.

But they’re not musk-laden like your feverish India.” “Feverish India,” mused Mrs. Harcourt “I wonder if It is sol lam so much better to-day. I can’t remember anything; it’s all a dim, fcray waste In my head, but it doesn't hurt any more, and I’m so glad. My husband—where Is he?” It was the first time she had asked about Harcourt Hartley hesitated. He did not know whether to break the blessed peace that surrounded her. He did not know what to tell her. Finally he decided to tell the truth—a rash thing always. “Why, Miss Lancey disappeared, you know; or do you remember the young girl who went to your room that night. And the police—of course it’s foolish of them, but the police, you know, think he may know something about her disappearance, and they’re holding him till they find her.” “Is he in Jail?” asked Mrs. Harcourt “Why, yes,” admitted Philip, “but they’ve made him very comfortable. You can be, comfortable even In jail, you know. He doesn't seem to be minding it much.’ “Sometimes I have thought—of late —I don’t know, but there seems to oe a shadow between my husband and me. What is it? I know and yet I cannot telL Answer me, are there two Me’s? Else why have I seen myself walking in the garden when I was sick, so sick, and in my bed? Why have I seen myself beneath the trees caressing my husband when I was in the house with my baby on my knee? What is it? Arid why? I cannot understand at all!” Philip tried to soothe her. He feared she had overtaxed herself and blamed himself. He rose to go, but she detained him.

"No, don’t!” she pleaded. “You rest me. Just like the cool water does a weary throat. My throat doesn't burn any more like It used to. I wonder why. They don’t give me so much medicine here any more. Harold used to give it to me all the time. My head feels so much lighter than it did —as if it would blow away.” Dr. Fothergill had come In the room while Mrs. Harcourt was speaking; At the last words a triumphant look flashed across the physician’s face, and her lips formed the words, “I told you so.” ’T don’t believe I ever want to go back to India," continued Mrs. court, absently following the patterns in the ceiling. “I feel so different here. As if It were another life. And you, dear friend, you have been so kind, I love your visits so. j You must come oftener.” Philip blushed under her unconventionality. He was well aware that even under the guise of newspaper demands that a penniless S3O-a-week reporter had no right to call too frequently upon the wife of an - ndian magnate, herself possessed of a large fortune. Partlculahly when this said wife was a young, lovely and seemingly unfortunate woman. He made his adieux confusedly. Dr. Fothergill followed him out into the hall. “You must, as she says, come oftener,” the doctor Insisted, with the emphasis of all gray-haired women. “She never speaks of herself except when you are here. It Is the only way to clear this thing up. Mind what I say. And matters are muddled badly enough qow, goodness kno\Vs. What with two young jdiots —Mr. Morris and Mr. Johnson —both heading for Africa on a wild goose chase, Mrs. Desterle’s death, and the disappearance of Miss Lancey, there has been too much woe and ruin accumulated at the feet of one murder. A fine set of police they have here, I must say. Come to-morrow, Young man, com* to-morrow.” And Philip needed but little urging. His sentiments for the woman who was so slowly convalescing were far too tender to suit his reason, when he stopped to use it. ’ But Philip was young, and youth Is ever Irrational, so he counted each hour with Mrs. Harcourt as rarer than the gems that fastened her hair, or her soft lounging robes of wonderful texture and color- ' Ing. He read to her. he played that old Indian game, parchesl, with lier. and one day proposed a game of cards, but the sight of the pasteboards turned her faint, and she suffered a- sinking spell that put her recovery back for