Evening Republican, Volume 17, Number 42, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 18 February 1913 — Page 2

The SABLE LORCHA

By HORACE HAZELTINE

SYNOPSIS. . Robert Cameron, capitalist, consults Philip Clyde, newspaper publisher, regarding anonymous threatening letters he Mi received. The first promises a sample of the writer’s power 'on a certain day. On that day the head ie mysteriously cut from a portrait of Cameron while the latter is in the room. Clyde has a theory that the portrait was mutilated while the room was unoccupied and the head later removed by means of a string, unnoticed by Cameron. Evelyn Grayson, Cameron s niece, with whom Clyde to In love, finds the head of Cameron's portrait nailed to a tree, where It was had been used ,as a target, CHAPTER lll— (Continued). "There are two ways of looking at It,” I replied, my eyes fixed on the ... canvas and its perforations. “At first glance it does seem spiteful; but then there Is a chance that it is not iconoclasm, after all. It may be, you know, Just the reverse. I have not lnfrequently seen portraits that were so unjust to the originals that they fairly cried out for destruction.” “But this lp not one like that,” she retorted. “This seems to me a very good portrait. lam sure Uncle Robert must have looked exactly like it, ten years ago.” “Alas, we do wot all see with the game eyes,” I asuured her, smiling. “The destroyer may have looked on It as a caricature, ’ not having your cultured taste In art.” I held It off at arm’s length, and after regarding it critically for a moment between halfdosed lids, I continued, “Do you think you could point out the identical tree to which it was nailed?” “I could try,” was her answer. “Ib it far?” “Not very. A mile, from here, possibly. Over the ridge.” “Near anything in particular?” . “Near the trail which leads up from the trout stream to the entrance drive not far from the Lodge.” “When will you take me there?” I naked. jiisl an lußtant sfre hesltated. “We might go now,” she replied, “if It weren’t that I am expecting Celia Ainslee for luncheon. Suppose we say five o’clock. You can meet me at the Lodge. It’s a short walk from there.” “Fine!" I approved, thrusting the portrait head beneath my arm and taking possession of both her whitegloved hands. Slender and shapely hands, yet wonderfully capable. “Good-by!” she cried, laughing. “Take care of my uncle!” with a glance towards her punctured find. “Good-by!” I returned, releasing her. “Your uncle Bhall have my most faithful concern.” The real significance of the words she, of course, did not comprehend. But as I stood watching her until _a turn In the path enfolded her from my sight, their echo, ringing In my ears, impressed me with their pregnancy. Her uncle was evidently the focal point of a crafty and vengeful conspiracy, the seriousness of which I had been foolishly endeavoring to minimise; and 0 aa such he was in need, not only of my concern, but of all the loyal, energetic, and efficient aid of which I was capable.

CHAPTER IV. The Chinese Servant. Four o’clock found me rapping at the door of Cragholt Lodge. Considering that it was built thirty-five years ago by one of the Townsbury family who probably read English novels but had never been nearer to England than Coney Island, it possessed a surprising picturesqueness; idue in large part to its covering of |dark English ivy. II had anticipated my appointment with Evelyn by a full hour; for 1 wished to question old Romney, the lodge keeper;'and the questions were 3not for milady’s ear. He opened to me promptly, in per|fon, this odd, rugged old man, with Kfeis seamed brow and great shock of jjp*on-gray hair and beard. He was in |||lfi shirt sleeves, but on seeing me he reached for his coat, which hung a peg beside the door. H**Never mind the coat, Romney,” I ijld. “don’t make yourself uncomIjßtable on my account It's a warm afternoon.” Tft It is warmish, sir," he assented; !§■! despite my protest he was thrustfjStft' his arm into the coat sleeves, rita been an uncommon hot SeptemWon’t you step inside, sir?” HLftfe knew bis place too well to indicate any surprise at my vißit; yet I 'IWT he must be curious over an event STfinususl. ”1 have an inquiry or two to make. Roniiey,” I told him, as, accepting hhfe f uggestion, I stepped into , his coftv old-fashioned sitting room. “I beu-d some shooting over this way tblg fnornlng. and I’ve been wondering whether the game laws weren't being broken." He placed a cushioned rockingchair for me, and I sat down. "Now did you hear that, too, Mr. Cl fSti" he asked, brightening, as be Manedjagainst the low sill of one of the daintily curtained windows. " 'Twas about ten o’clock, sir; a little ■tfisn tub] ’i i I was doin' a bit of ggp-.

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trimmin’ on the hedge outside, sir, when them same shots set me a-thinkin’ that very thing. An’ right away, sir, I says to myself, says I, ‘lt’s that Chink what just went up to the house to borrow a rifle.’ ’’ “That Chink?” I repeated, puzzled. “Yes, sir. Yellow Chinese boy, sir. He works for Mr. Murphy, the artist, what has the bungalow, down on the shore near Cos Cob. About half an hour before that he comes by here on his way up to the house. 'What’s wantin’?’ I asks. ‘Mistle Mulfy,’ he says, ‘wantee hollow lisle, shootee weasel, Btealee chickee.’ ‘All right,’ 1 tells him, and away he goes. So, you see, sir, when I hears the shots I thinks right away that Mr. Murphy’s Chink is tryin’ his ’hollowed lifle’ on some of Mr. Cameron’s pheasants, maybe. But 15 minutes later, along comes John again, with an innocent grin on his face, the rifle over his shoulder, and his hands empty as air. Well, to be sure, I stops him, sir. ‘You been shootin’ in the woods?’ 1 asks. ‘No shootee,’ he grins back. ‘Me no shootee.’ Then, sir, I swears at him, good and hearty, and calls him what he is. But all he can say is, ‘No lie; me no shootee.’ Then I as'ks him if he didn’t hear a gun go oft. ‘Gun?’ he says, as if he didn’t know what gun meant. ‘Lifle,’ I explains. ‘Yes, yes,’ says he, ‘me hear lisle shootee. Not my lifle.’ ‘Whose lifle?’ I asks him. ‘Man with lisle, up load,’ he says, pointing back. An’ that was all I could get out of him, sir.”

I should have been amused, I suppose, by old Romney’s recital. It was certainly very graphic, and his imitation of the Chinaman was histrionically artistic —I fear the stage missed a comedian of merit when Romney took to lodge-keeping—but at the first mention of the oriental, I had pricked my ears, and throughout the narration my mind was- busy with those strangely worded letters of Cameron’s and those still stranger blots which looked one way like a Chinese Junk and the other way like a coolie in a straw helmet. The possibility of a connection, especially In view of the rifle and the perforated painting, seemed to me the reverse of remote. And yet I could hardly reconcile the notion of this apparently ignorant Mongolian being in any wise interested in bringing disaster upon a person so far removed from him in every way as was Cameron; much less in evolving or taking part in such a crafty plot as everything we had thus far learned of it indicated this to be.

• My questioning of Romney shed very little new light on the subject. He had seen the Chinaman pass the Lodge on several occasions; he had rarely entered the grounds, however. I tried to ascertain what his “rarely" meant, and finally got him to say that In the past six months, “John,” as he called him, had visited Cragholt, on one pretext or another, possibly three or four times. But Romney’s memory for dates was exceedingly feeble. He could not recollect whether one of those times was on or about the twenty-first of August. He was equally at a loss concerning the fourteenth of August and the fourteenth of September.

“What do you know of this artist, Murphy, who employs John?” I asked. ~j“Not much, sir,” was his answer. “They do say as he is rather eccentric, sir. He and the Chink lives alone there in the bungalow, summer and winter. He’s a big red-headed and bearded fellow, sir. I did hear a story as to him gettin’ into a fight up at Garrison’s hotel in Greenwich village, and nearly killin’ three young watermen near as big as himself." “Has he lived here long?" “Goin’ on two years, now, sir.” "He paints and sells pictures, I suppose?” “Maybe, sir. I never sees any, though. But they calls him an artist, sir." I determined to visit Murphy on the pretext of purchasing some of his work, and in this manner learn, if possible, something more of his celestial servitor. “Of course you didn’t- see any one else with a rifle, today?” I asked, in conclusion. “The ‘man with lifie up load’ didn’t materialize?” "No, sir. Not another soul, sir. I asked some of the boys—them as has charge of the deer In the preserve, over the wny the shootin’ sounded. But they hadn’t seen no one, either, sir. Though they did hear the shots.” I thanked Romney for his interest —he knew I wsb one of the state game wardens—and admonished him to keep his own counsel, as to my visit, leaving the Impression him that I wished to round up the culprit, and feared If my activity in the matter were scented my prey would be put on his guard and thus escape me. ‘ ’ It still lacked twenty minutes of the hour of my appointment with Evelyn when I Issued from the Lodge, and to occupy the time 1 entered the

wide gateway between the great stone pillars with their heraldic shields, and sauntered leisurely along the smooth macadam drive, bordered by sentinel elms. ’7 My thoughts were busy with the new line of conjecture which Romney had unconsciously opened up for me. I wondered whether by any possibility this eccentric painter, Murphy, could be personally involved. Was Cameron acquainted with him? Had they ever quarrelled? From what Romney had told me of the affair at Garrison’s the artist was evidently of a bellicose disposition. He had come here two years ago. Cameron had owned Cragholt less than a year. Perhaps at the time he was preparing the mansion for occupancy he had offended the. too sensitive Murphy, who—-I was letting my imagipation run free—may have wished to take a hand at the new decoration. It would probably be well for me to see Cameron before seeing the artist. The Involutions of my hypothetical train led me,-I fear, into many monstrously preposterous conceits; yet, as subsequent events proved, the in which I indulged on that afternoon walk was not wholly idle. Although the Working out was along lines which -I was then far from foreseeing, it was curious, in looking back, to observe how very closely, collaterally, even at that stage, I came to the truth.

In the midst of my revery, the rhythm of horse’s hoofs on the drive awoke me to time and place. And as I raised my eyes, I saw, still some distance away, but bearing down upon me at a swift single-foot, the girlish figure of Evelyn Grayson, In white waist and gray habit, mounted on Prince Charley, a buckskin cayuse, which for saddle purposes she preferred to all the thoroughbreds In the Cameron stables. “Am I late?” she cried, reining. the wiry little animal to a stand beside n*e. “Celia Ainslee Just left. She was expecting the Lentilhons to stop for her in their motor boat, but they broke down and were delayed, and instead of coming at three o’clock, It was half-past four before they landed."

“I fancy you are just on the minute,” was my response, as I consulted my timepiece. “But I’m still a mile from the Lodge," she argued. “And all the nearer to the trail," I condoned. “It must be somewhere about here, Isn’t it?" “You’ve passed It. It’s Just beyond that next bend." And she pointed over my shoulder. v . “Why didn’t you bring a groom with you to hold your steed?” I asked, smiling. “You don’t expect to ride Prince Charley Into the forest fastnesses, do you?” "I could,” she answered, promptly. "I will. If you dare me. He Can pick his way like a cat. But it isn’t necessary. He’ll stand forever, the dear thing, if I drop the bridle rein over his head.” My preference was to have her on foot at my side, and so I did not dare her. And thus it chanced that we left the homely little animal standing with drooping head and dangling rein on the shadowed side of the driveway, and went off together down the narrow, slow descending trail, the girl in the lead. The slanting sunlight, shooting its golden arrows in Intermittent vofieys through the tree tops, made target of her hair, as we passed, scoring brilliant flashes of burnished bronze. Her hat, a broad-brimmed sailor of coarse straw, was but a poor shield for that shimmering, tawny coil which lay low on her neck, and the darting rays had their will with it I have never before or since seen hair just like Evel>u Orayßou’s. There was such a wealth of it and its color was so elusive. Under dim lights it seemed a prosaic brown, but with small encouragement it changed to a light fawn, stre&ked with lustrous topaz strands; which in the sun’s blaze became a dazzling bronze glory. “I’m pretty sure I can find the tree,” she asserted, aB she swung along with that free, lissome stride which I loved. “It is an old, dead chestnut, a great giant of the woods, imposing even in death; and it stands only a half-dozen yards off the trail. I was looking for ferns, or I never In the world should have come upon it. How do you imagine that tning ever got away off here? And who could have stuck It up on that dead tree trunk?” "That is precisely what I should like to find out,” was my reply "It seems very mysterious to me. About what time was it, when you discovered it?” "*«. “Just before I met you.” “Had you heard any shooting in the woods, before that?" “Shooting?” she queried, apparently surprised. "No. Was some one shooting?" “I understood so. Poaching, I imagine. After some of Cameron's fat pheasants."

»!|r#<*jM&yr " ~74 Jfffcat makes small difference with k^KMueher.” Her belief in her ability to lead me to the tree of which we were in quest was not unfounded. Twice she paused and peered in between the gray trunks which grew close to our path; once she took a step off the trail, bending in keen-eyed search of certain familiar landmarks. These were the only interruptions to what was otherwise a straight march to the goal. ' When, at length, we reached It, she identified it beyond question, and I had little difficulty in finding the nail from which the piece of canvas had been suspended. It was one of thin wire, with very small head,- driven into the tree at a distance of about four and a half feet from the ground. Just beneath it I found four scattering bullet holes, with the bullets too deeply embedded to be extracted with so poor a tool as a pocket knife. From this It was evident that the shots had been fired at comparatively short range, as indeed they must have been, seeing that the trees here grew so thickly as to make Impossible any very extended line of sight upon the target. Somewhat to Evelyn’s perplexity I began making a careful inspection ot the ground, not only about the tree, but as far away from it as the range of vision extended. “What are you looking for?” she demanded, with a show of concern, and, I thought, a little peevishly. “Footprints,” I answered laughing. "Behold the American Sherlock!” "Have you found any?” “Only Cinderella’s," and that put her in. good humor. But I found something of much more Importance than the Indentations of shoe soles. I found it very near the foot of the tree, Just below where the painting had hung. It was half hidden by underbrush, and at first I mistook it for a stone. Unobserved by Evelyn, I slipped it into my pocket “After all,” I. said to her, "there’s not very much to be learned here, is there?"

CHAPTER V, Found Dead. My motor boat, which had been running swiftly and smoothly, with the least possible clamor from the exhaust, suddenly missed a stroke and then, after a succession of choking sobs, ceased all effort, and gradually losing headway, drifted idly with the tide. “Well done, Jerry," I whispered from my seat in the stern to the capable young Irishman who was bending over the motor —whispered, because, as all the world knows, the water is a sounding board, and I had no intention of permitting any one on shore to hear my words of approval. To all appearances the motor had broken down, and we were voyagers in distress. “The tide’s settin’ in,” murmured Jerry. “Unless I miss me guess, it’ll land us ou his beach inside o’ five minutes, sir." The slender scallop of a new moon had set an hour before, but the night was luminously clear, and the stars blazed with an almost southern effulgence. There was very little breeze and the waters of the Mianus were scarcely rippled. The air was chill, however, though now and, then there came to us a warm breath from the fields which all day long had lain baking In the fervent sunshine. Along the shore to our left we caught the glint of lights from the summer cottages. To Jerry Rooney every inch of the little hay and river was - familiar. Each light waß for him a landmark; and so, as much by intuition aB careful calculation, he had clogged the engine at a point whence, taking tide and current into consideration, we might count upon drifting to the water end of Artist Murphy’s lawn., As we drew nearer and he stealthily pointed out to me the location, I was able to dqecry a little grove of trees, black in the starlight, making a horizontal barrier across the limited enclosure, and hiding, like a rope portiere, the bungalow from the river. Through this no lights penetrated, and I began to doubt that, after all my pains, I should find at home the object of their taking. A catboat, with sail wrinkling In the uncertain breeze, glided by us. almost too near for comfort, and we caught a sentence, two sentences, in fact, from the conversation of the occupants: “Nobody knows him," in clear, ringing masculine tones; and, "H<e handsome, if he is surly," in a woman's voice.

When Every Sailor Wore a Queue

The sailors’ broad collars were devised so that the powder or tar on the wearer’s queues should not come off on the blouse. In the old days every sailor wore his hair in a queue and either had the queue powdered or held together by tar. This was not good I for the blouse or jacket underneath. So detachable broad collars were added. Sailors stopped wearing queues a century ago. . But they still wear the wide collar. When Lord Nelson died the British navy went into mourning for him. Sailors put broad black ribbons on their caps and black ribbons on their blouses. And the ribbons re-

I wondered If they were speaking of Murphy. My telephone inquiry of Cameron and subsequent questioning bf the men about my place had 'proved to me that both observations would apply. No one seemed to know very much of this brawny; sandy giant. In spite of his two year’s rest-; dence in the neighborhood. - 4 ■ j Now the shore’s shadow was engulfing us, and the next moment with a gentle swish of waters, we felt the boat’s bottom grate on the pebbly beach. There was a landing a‘ short distance further up—a spindling wooden pier—and to this Jerry, knee deep in the black water, turned the boat and made it fast The prospect which confronted us as we walked shoreward over the creaking planks was aboat&a hospitable as the grim walls of a prison. The tree barrier rose stark and forbidding. a dozen yards away. Between it and the river was a combination of pebbles, sand, high grass, and ragged overgrown lawn, faintly visible in the starlight. On nearer approach, however, we found an opening In the curtain of trees, a verilAhle valley of shadow, through which we passed to a strip of neglected svfSrd and a squat, unpalnted weather-beat-en cottage of a single story, with vine-screened verandah. And in what seemed to us the very center of the house front, there shone a tiny glowing point of red Are. We had not come altogether in vain. By all the odds of chance, it was a safe conclusion that Murphy, in propria persona, was behind that lighted end of a cigar. Then we saw the point move, describing a half circle, and si- ' multaneously a voice rang out —a deep, sonorous voice, but of churlish intonation: “What do you want here?” I suppose he expected me to come to a Budden halt, but I was then only

a-few steps distant from the verandah, and as I answered him, I cohered that distance. “My motor boat ran out of gasolene,” I said, “and drifted to your beach. I was in hopes we might borrow enough to get us home.” I saw him now, dimly, in the shadowed recess. He was seated facing me, a creature of great bulk, with huge head and ponderous shoulders. “I don’t keep gasolene," waß his gruff response. “I thought—” I began, but his next utterance drowned my words. "I say I don’t keep it,” he reiterated, in louder tones. "Isn’t that plain?"

“Oh, quite. You have neither gasolene nor good manners.” I saw him rise, a massive tower, dwarfing his surroundings, and take a step forward to the edge of his porch. “Thiß is my house and my castle," he flung at me, savagely, “and I won’t stand for trespassers. If you two don’t want to be flung off my property, It would be advisable for you to make haste In going.” My laugh was not calculated to salve his ill humor, yet I think he must have gathered from it that I was not to be terrorized by either his size or his threats. "Your name’s' Murphy, I think.” I ventured, calmly, not moving an Inch. But he made no response. “Mine Is Clyde,” I went on; “I am one of the state game wardens.” “I’m not interested in _ who you are,” he growled. “But I’m Interested In learning what your Chinaman was shooting this morning, over on the Cameron place." “Then find outi" was his courteous retort. “I’m sure I shan’t tell you." "Maybe the Chinaman will be more obliging,” I suggested, and turning to Jerry, who had stood in silence, all the while, a few steps behind me, I said: “Look around at the back, my lad, and If you can find Mr. Murphy’s man fetch him here.” But before I had quite finished, the big man in the shadow of the verandah was storming: “He’ll stop Just where he Is. If he dares to come another step nearer thiß house. I’ll throw the pair of you over the hedge, neck and crop. Do you hear me?” "And if you dare to interfere with an offloer or his deputy in the discharge of his duty, the authorities will settle with you,” was my calm rejoinder. “Trot ahead, Jerry! His bark's worse than bis bite." Jerry, quick to obey, disappeared on the instant around the corner of the bungalow, and Murphy, after a pretended dash forward, halted on the lower porch step. “See here!” he demanded, cumbrously. “What’s all this, anyhow? You come here after gasolene, ostensibly, and then declare you’re game wardens after a law-defying, Chinese poacher.” (TO BE CONTINUED.)

main to this day, not only on the uniforms of British sailors, but on those of other navies as well. The broad “hell shaped” ends of sailors’ trouser legs were thus shaped so that the wearer might more easily turn his trousers up above his knees when he had to swab the decks. Deck swabbing was a hateful and supposedly degrading task. Hence the sailors called thefir enemies "swabs” as a term of contempt. More than one man has failed in life simply because he persisted in havinj spats and In wearing them

BANDIED JOKES WITH KINGS

Witty Sallies Which Royalty Haa Invoked, Sometimes Very Much at Their Own Expense. Thomas Carlyle observed that “kings are ill to joke wri’,” but there have nevertheless been plenty of jokers so audacious as to “josh” royalty with impunity. Indeed, there have been rulers with a well developed sense of humor, such as Charles 11., capable of enjoying a sally at their expense. - It is related that one day when Charles was inspecting a warship at Chatham he asked Killigrew: “Don’t you think that I should have made a. good shipwright?” Charles was proud ture, and, no doubt, by this query sought a compliment. But Killigrew, who was nothing of a courtier, replied instead: “I have always thought that your majesty would do better at any trade than your own.” A lively example of French retort to royalty is afforded by the story of Marshal Bassompierre and Louis isill. The marshal had given his majesty an account of his embassy to Spain, setting forth the manner in which he had entered the Spanish capital mounted on a mule. “An ass seated on a mule!" exclaimed Louis, with a laugh. “Yes, sir,” replied the marshal, “and the joke of It was I represented you!” Good old Queen Bess, it appears, had a pretty wit, which she was by no means loath to exercise upon her subjects. In one verbal duel, at least, Elizabeth got the worst of it. Observing in the gardens a courtier to whom she had promised promotion that had not materialized, her majesty thrust her head out of the window and called to him: “What does a man think of, Sir Edward, when he thinks of nothing?” "Of a woman’s promise, your majesty!” was the response. Among the neatest retortß to royalty whereof we have record was that alleged to have been made to the Prince of Wales, afterward King William IV., by the secretary of the admiralty. William had been bantering the secretary for some time at table. “When I am king,” said he, “you shall not be secretary to the admiralty. WTiat do you say to that?” “God save the king!” rejoined the witty secretary.

Brittany Bridal Superstitions.

It Is interesting to note the number of shrines in Brittany dedicated to marriage. “At Ploumanach, a village on the northern coast,” says a writer In Country Life, “there Is a shrine picturesquely situated amid the rocka which the sea washes round every day. Only at low' tide can one clamber over the rocks to the canopied, figure of St. Guerin. When a Breton girl deßlres to marry she sticks a pin. In the nose of this saint; should It drop out within the year she belleyea her desire will be fulfilled. On, another occasion, near Douarrenez, in the Finistere district, I came across a small shrine decorated with orange blossoms in a hedgerow,- where a young girl whom I had previously seen tending }ier flocks was kneeling: in prayer, after which she rose and dropped a pin down the well. By questioning her I found) that it was the custom there to drop a pin down the well before the saint, and eventually, after the wedding ceremony, the bridal blossoms were brought and hung round the Bhrine.” —Tit Bits.

Mysterious Number 9.

Has it ever occurred to you that strange feats may be performed with, figures t Multiply the figure 9, for Instance. Multiply it by 2 and you get 18, and 8 and 1 make 9. Five 9’s are 45, and 5 and 4 make 9 again. Three 9’s are 27, and 7 and 2 make 9. Four 9’s are 36, and 6 and S make 9. Nine is indeed a mysterious number. Take any row of figures you fancy, say 8642, ahd If you reverse them and subtract, 8642 —2468, you have left 6174, which added together, makes 18, or twice 9. Take the 18, and 8 and 1 make 9 again. If you take five figures, say 76543, reverse them, 34567, and subtract, you get 41976, which, added together, makes 27—that is, 7 and 2 make 9, or three 9's are 27. Thirty-seven Is another number specially adapted for figure juggling. Multiplied by 3, 37 becomes 111, and no matter what multiple of 3 you use, the figures In the result will be all alike. Twelve! times 37 Is 444, 37 times 21 becomes 777 and so on. —Answers.

$1,700,000 Muskrats. It is not generally known that the muskrat is the most Important furbearing animal of North America. In one year alone (1910) 5,600,000 muskrat skins were put upon the market, realizing to the trappers a sum approximately $1,700,000. A large percentage of the muskrat catch is furnished by the tidewater region of Maryland, Delaware and New Jersey. In Dorchester county, Maryland, the marshes are usually leased to the trapper for half the value of the catch. In that county some 260,000 skins are taken annually, says Harper’s Weekly. Not only Mr of the muskrat is used, but the meat also, which finds a local consumption and is shipped to Baltimore, Wilmington and other cities. It is surprising to learn that the financial return exceeds that of the large oyster Industry of the same region. The Mr of the black muskrat commands the highest price, and in Dorchester county some of the marshes yield MUy one-half of this variety.