Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 240, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 9 October 1915 — Page 2

the CZAR'S SPY .. The Mystery of a Silent Love ..

By Chevalier WILLIAM LE QUEUX AUTHOR of "THE CLOSED BOOK,” ETC.

AUTHOR •f’mr closed book,” no ILLUSTRATIONS

SYNOPSIS. —7— Gordon Ore« •• called upon tn L«Ctera by Hornby, the yacht tola s owner, aad dining aboard with him and his friend, Hylton Chater, accidentally sees a torn photograph of a young girl. That ■ight the consul's safe is robbed. The police find that Hornby is a fraud and the Lola’s name a false one. Gregg visits Capt. Jack Durnford of the marines aboard his vessel. Durnford knows, but will not reveal, the mystery of the Lola. "It concerns a woman." In London Gregg Is trapped nearly to his death by a former servant, Olinto. Visiting In Dumfries Gregg meets Muriel Leithcourt. Hornby appears and Muriel Introduces him as Martin Woodroffe, her father’s friend. Gregg finds that she is engaged to Woodroffe. Gregg sees a copy of the torn photograph on the Lola and finds that the young girl is Muriel's friend. Woodroffe disappears Gregg discovers the body of a murdered woman in Rannoch wood. The body disappears and in its place Is found the body of Olinto. Grogg talks to the police but conceals his own knowledge of the woman. Muriel calls secretly on Gregg and tells him that she is certain that a woman as well as a man has been murdered. They search Rannoch wood together, and find the body of the woman. Gregg recognises her as Arm I da, Ollnto’s wife. Gregg tells the police, but when they go to the wood the body has disappeared.

CHAPTER Vll—Continued. That night, after calling upon the detective, Mackenzie, I took the sleeping car express to Euston. The restaurant which Hutcheson had indicated was, I found, situated about halfway up Westbourne Grove, nearly opposite Whiteley’s. It was soon after nine o'clock when I entered the long shop with its rows of marble-topped tables and greasy lounges of red plush. An unhealthy-looking lad was sweeping out the place with wet sawdust, and a big, dark-bearded, flabby-faced man in shirt sleeves stood behind the small counter polishing some forks. "I wish to see Signor Ferrari," I said, addressing him. "There is no Ferrari, he is dead,” responded the man in broken English. "My name is Odlnzoff. I bought the place from madame." "I have come to inquire after a waiter you have in your service, an Italian named Santini. He was my servant for some years, and I naturally take an interest in him.” “Santini?" he repeated. "Oh, you mean Olinto? He is not here yet. He comes at ten o'clock.” This reply surprised me. I had expected the restaurant keeper to express regret at his disappearance, yet he spoke as though he had been at work as usual on the previous day. “You find Olinto a good servant, I suppose?" I said, for want of something else to say. “Excellent The Italians are the best waiters in the world. 1 am Russian, but I dare not employ a Russian waiter. These English would not come to my shop if I did." “How long has Olinto been with you?" I inquired. “About a year—perhaps a little more. I trust him implicitly, and I leave him in charge when I go away for holidays. He does not get along very well with the cook—who is Milanese. These Italians from different provinces always quarrel,” he added, laughing. “If you live in Italy you know that no doubt.” I laughed in chorus and then, glancing at my watch, said: “I’ll wait for him, if he will be here at ten. I'd much like to see him again." The Russian was by no means nonplused, but merely remarked: "He is late sometimes, but not often. He lives on the other side of London—over at Camberwell.” Suddenly a side door opened and the cook put his head in to speak with his master in French. He was a typical Italian, about forty, with dark mustaches turned upwards, and an easygoing, careless manner. Seeing me. however, and believing me to be a customer, he turned and closed the door quickly. In that instant I noticed the high broadness of his shoulders, and his back struck me as strangely similar to that of the man in brown whom we had seen disappearing in Rannoch wood. The suspicion held me breathless. Presently Odlnzoff went outside, carrying with him two boards upon which the menu of the “Eightpenny Luncheon! This Day!” was written in scrawly characters, and proceeded to affix them to the shop front This was my opportunity, and quick as thought I moved towards where the unhealthy youth was at work, and whispered: “IH give you half-a-soverelgn if you’ll answer my questions truthfully. Now, tell me, was the cook, the man I’ve just seen, here yesterday?” "Emilio? Yes. sir.” “Was he here the day before?” “No. sir. He’s been away ill for four days.” “And your master?” I had no time to put any further question, for the Russian re-entered at that moment, and the youth busied himself rubbing the front of the counter in pretense that I had not spoken to him. Indeed. I had some difficulty in slipping the promised coin into his hand at a moment when his master was not looking. While I stood there a rather thin, respectably dressed man entered and seated himseK tsnoa one of the plush

lounges at the farther end, removed his bowler hat and ordered from the proprietor a chop and a pot of tea. Then, taking a newspaper from his pocket, he settled himself to read, apparently oblivious to his surroundings. And yet as I watched 1 saw that over the top of his paper he was carefully taking in the general appearance of the place, and his eyes were keenly following the Russian's movements. So deep was his interest in the place, and so keen those dark eyes of his, that the truth suddenly dawned upon me. Mackenzie had telegraphed to Scotland Yard and the customer sitting there was a detective who had come to investigate. I had advanced to the counter to chat again with the proprietor when a quick step behind me caused me to turn. Before me stood the slim figure of a man in a straw hat and rather seedy black jacket “Dio Signor Padrone!” he cried. I staggered as though I had received a blow. Olinto Santini in the flesh, smiling and well, stood there before me!

CHAPTER VIII. Life’s Counter-Claim. No word of mine can express my absolute and abject amazement when I faced the man, whom I had seen lying cold and dead upon,that gray stone slab In the mortuary of Dumfrlea My eye caught the customer who, on the entry of Olinto, had dropped his paper and sat staring at him in wonderment The detective had evidently been furnished with a photograph of the dead man, and now, like myself, discovered him alive and living. “Signor Padrone!” cried the man whose appearance was so absolutely bewildering. “How did you find me here? I admit that I deceived you when 1 told you I worked at the Milano,” he went on rapidly in Italian. "But it was under compulsion—my actions that night were not my own—but those of others.” “Yes, I understand,” I said. “But come out into the street I don’t wish to speak before these people. Your padrone knows Italian, no doubt.” And turning with a smile to the Pole, I apologized for taking away his servant for a few minutes. And when we were outside, Olinto walking by my side in wonderment, I asked suddenly: “Tell me. Have you ever been in Scotland —at Dumfries?” “Npver. signor, in my life. Why?” “Answer me another question,” I said quickly. “You married Armida at the Italian consulate. Where is she now —where is she this morning?” He turned pale, and I saw a complete change .in his countenance. “Ah, signore!” he responded, “I only wish I could tell.” “I cast no reflection whatever upon you, Olinto: I have merely inquired after your wife, and you do not give me a direct reply.” We had walked to the Royal Oak. and stood talking on the curb outside. "I giveTyou no reply, because I can’t,” he said in Italian. “Armida—my poor Armida —has left home.” “Why did you tell me such a tale of distress regarding her?”

“As 1 have already explained, signore, I was not then master of my own actions. I was ruled by others. But 1 saved your life at risk of my own. Some day, when it is safe, I will reveal to you everything.” “Let us allow the past to remain,” I said. "Where is your wife now?" He hesitated a moment, looking straight into my face. "The truth is, Signor Commendatore, that my wife has mysteriously disappeared. Last Saturday at eleven o’clock she was talking over the garden wall with a neighbor, and was then dressed to go out. She apparently went out, but from that moment no one has seen or heard of her.” It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him the ghastly truth, yet so strange was the circumstance, that his own double, even to the mole upon his face, should be lying dead and buried in Scotland that I hesitated to relate what I knew. "She spoke English, I suppose?" “She could make herself understood very well,” he said with a sigh, and I saw a heavy, thoughtful look upon his brow. That he was really devoted to her. I knew. With the Italian of whatever station in life, love is allconsuming—it is either perfect love or genuine hatred. The Tuscan character is one of two extremes. I glanced across the road, and saw that the detective who had ordered his chop and. coffee had stopped to light his pipe and was watching us. ’’But why haven’t you told the police?" i “I prefer to make inquiries for myself.” “And in what have your inquiries resulted?” "Nothing—absolutely nothing," he said gravely. ~ - •>’ “You do not suspect any plot? I

THE EVENING REPUBLICAN. RENSSELAER. IND.

recollect that night in Lambeth you told me you had enemies?” “Ah! so 1 have, signore—and so have you!” he exclaimed hoarsely. “Yes. my poor Armida may have been entrapped by them.” “And if entrapped, what then?" “They would kill her with as little compunction as they would a fly,” he said. “Ah! you do not know the callousness of those people. 1 only hope and pray that she may have escaped and is in hiding somewhere, and will arrive unexpectedly and give me a startling surprise. She delights in startling me,” he added with a laugh. “Then you think she must have been called away from home by some urgent message?” I suggested. "By the manner in which she left things, it seemed as though she went away hurriedly. There were five sovereigns in a drawer that we had saved for the rent, and she took them with her.” I paused, hesitating whether to tell him the terrible truth. I recollected that the body had disappeared, therefore what proof had I of my allegation that she had been murdered? “Tell me, Olinto,” 1 said as we moved forward again in the direction of Paddington station, "have you any knowledge of a man named Leithcourt?" He started suddenly and looked at me. “I have heard of him,” he answered very lamely. “And of his daughter—Muriel?” “And also of her. But I am not acquainted with them —nor, to tell the truth, do I wish to be.” "Why?” “Because they are enemies of mine —bitter enemies." His declaration was strange, for it threw some light upon the tragedy in Rannoch wood. “And of your wife, also?” “I do not know that,” he responded. "My enemies are my wife’s also, I suppose.” “You have not told me the secret of that dastardly attempt upon me when we last met,” I said in a low voice. “Why not tell me the truth? I surely ought to know who my enemies really are, so as to be warned against any future plot.” “You shall know some day, signore. I dare not tell you now.” “You said that before,” I exclaimed with dissatisfaction. "If you are

Olinto Santini in the Flesh, Smiling and Well, Stood There Before Me.

faithful to me, you ought at least to tell me the reason they wished to kill me in secret.” “Because they fear you,” was his answer. “Why should they fear me?” But he shrugged his shoulders, and made a gesture with his hands indicative of utter ignorance. “I ask you one question. Answer yes or no. Is the man Leithcourt my enemy?” The young Italian paused, and then answered: “He is not your friend. I am quite well aware of that I have known him several years. When we first met he was poor.” "Suddenly became rich —eh?” • "Bought a fine house in the country; lives mostly at the Carlton when he and his wife and daughter are in London —although I believe they now have a house somewhere in the West end —and he often makes long cruises in his steam yacht” “And how did he make his money?” Again Olinto elevated his shoulders without replying. He walked with me as far as the end of Bishop's road, endeavoring with all the Italian’s exquisite diplomacy to obtain from me what I knew concerning the Leithcourts. But I told him nothing, nor did I reveal that I had only that morning returned from Scotland. Then at last we parted, and he retraced his steps to the little restaurant in Westbourne Grove, while I entered a hansom and drove to the well-known photographer’s in New Bond street, whose name had been upon the torn photograph of the young girl in the white pique blouse and her hair fastened with a bow of ribbon, the picture that I had found on board the Lola on that, memorable night in the Mediterranean, and a duplicate of

which 1 nad seen In Muriel’s cozy little room up at Rannoch. I recollected that she had told me the name of the original was Elma Heath, and that she had been a schoolfellow of hers at Chichester. Therefore I inquired of the photographer’s lady clerk whether she could supply me with a print of the negative. For a considerable time she searched in her books for the name, and at last discovered it Then she said: “I regret, sir, that we can’t give you a print, for the customer purchased the negative at the time.” “Ah. I’m very sorry for that” I said. “To what address did you send it?” “The customer who ordered it was apparently a foreigner,” she said, at the same time turning round the ledger so that I could read, and I saw that the entry was: “Heath —Miss Elma — three dozen cabinets and negative. Address: Baron Xavier Oberg, Vosnesenski Prospect 48, St Petersburg, Russia.” Who was this Baron Oberg? The name was German undoubtedly, yet he lived in the Russian capital. From London to St. Petersburg is a far cry, yet I resolved if it were necessary I would travel there and investigate. At the German embassy, in the Carlton House Terrace, I found my friend. Captain Nieberding, the second secretary, of whom I inquired whether the name of Baron Oberg was known, but having referred to a number of German books in his excellency’s library, he returned and told me that the name did not appear in the lists of the German nobility. “He may be Russian —Polish, most probably," added the captain. His opinion was that it was not a German name, for there was a little place called Oberg, he said, on the railway between Lodz and Lowlcz.

Next day I ran down to Chichester, and after some difficulty found the Cheverton College for Ladies, a big old-fashioned house about half a mile out of the town of the Drayton road. The seminary was evidently a firstclass one, for when I entered I noticed how well everything was kept To the principal, an elderly lady of somewhat severe aspect, I said: “I regret, madam, to trouble you, but I am in search of inforiqatlon you can supply. •It is with regard to a certain Elma Heath whom you had as pupil here, and who left, I believe, about two years ago. Her parents lived in Durham. There has been some little friction in the family, and I am making inquiries on behalf of another branch of it —an aunt who desires to ascertain the girl’s whereabouts.” "Ah, I regret, sir, that I cannot tell you that. The baron, her uncle, came here one day and took her away suddenly —abroad, I think.” “Had she no school friends to whom she would probably write?” “There was a girl named Leithcourt —Muriel Leithcourt —who was her friend, but who has also left” “And no one else?” I asked. “Girls often write to each other after leaving school, until they get married, and then the correspondence usually ceases.” The principal was silent and reflective. “Well,” she said at last, “there was another pupil who was also on friendly terms with Elma —a girl nanied Lydia Moreton. She may have written to her. If you really desire to know, sir, I dare say I could find her address. She left us about nine months after Elma.” “I should esteem it a great favor if you would give me that young lady’s address,” I said, whereupon she unlocked a drawer in her writing-table and took therefrom a thick, leatherbound book which she consulted for a few minutes, at last exclaiming: “Yes, here it Is —’Lydia Moreton, daughter of Sir Hamilton Moreton. K. C. M. G.. Whiston Grange, Doncaster.’ ”

And with that I took my leave, thanking her, and returned to London. Could Lydia Moreton furnish any information? If so, I might find this girl whose photograph had aroused the irate jealousy of the mysterious unknown. The ten o’clock Edinburgh express from King’s Cross next morning took me up to Doncaster, and hiring a musty old fly at the station, I drove three miles out of the town on the Rotherham road, finding Whiston Grange to be a fine old Elizabethan mansion in the center of a great park, with tall old twisted chimneys, and beautifully kept gardens. When I descended at the door and rang, the footman was not aware whether Miss Lydia was in. He looked at me somewhat suspiciously, 1 thought, until I gave him my card and impressed upon him meaningly that 1 had come from London purposely to see his young mistress upon a very important matter. “Tell her,” I said, “that I wish to see her regarding her friend. Miss Elma Heath.” “Miss Elma ’Eath,” repeated the man. “Very well. sir. Will you walk this way?” I followed him across the big old oak-paneled hall, filled with trophies of the chase and arms of the civil wars, into a small paneled room on the left, the deep-set window with its diamond panes giving out upon the old bowling-green and the flower garden beyond. Presently the door opened, and a taR, dark-haired girl In white entered with an inquiring expression upon her face as she halted and bowed to mel “Miss Lydia Moreton. I believe?" I commenced, and as she replied in the affirmative, I went on: “I have first to apologize for coming to you. but Miss Sotheby, the principal of the

•Choo! at Chichester. referred me to you for information aa to the present whereabouts of Miss Elma Heath, who. I believe, was one of your most intimate friends at school.** And I added a lie, saying: **l am trying, on behalf of an aunt of hers, to discover her.** “Well," responded the girl. “I have only one or two letters. She’s in her uncle’s bands. I believe, and be won’t let her write, poor girl. She dreaded leaving us." “Why?" • "Ah! she would never say. She had some deep-rooted terror'of her uncle. Baron Oberg, who lived in St. Peters burg, and who came over at long inter vals to see her. But possibly you know the whole story?” "I know nothing,” I cried eagerly. "You will be furthering her interests, as well as doing me a great personal favor, if you will tell me what you know.” "It is very little,” she answered, leaning back against the edge of the table and regarding me seriously. “Poor Elma! Her people treated her very badly indeed. They sent her no money, and allowed her no holidays, and yet she was the sweetest-tempered and most patient girl in the whole school.” “Well—and the story regarding her?” . “It was supposed that her people at Durham did not exist,” she explained. “Elma had evidently lived a greater part of her life abroad, for she could speak French and Italian better than the professor himself, and therefore always won the prizes. The class revolted, and then she did not compete any more. Yet she never told us of where she had lived when a child. She came from Durham, she said —that was all.” “You had a letter from her after the baron came and took her away?* “Three or four, I think. They were all from places abroad. One was from Vienna, one was from Milan, and one from some place with an unpronounceable name in Hungary. The last—” “Yes, the last!” I gasped eagerly, interrupting her. (TO BE CONTINUED.)

RECLUSE IS A PHILOSOPHER

Negro Found Living In Cave Near Santa Barbara, Cal., Tells Some Plain Truths. "There’s rich living in garbage," says Orrin Swift, negro recluse, who has just come into publicity through the lodgment of a complaint questioning his sanity, reports a dispatch from Santa Barbara, Cal. He has for 20 years lived in a little cave on the mountainside, between Rincon and Ventura. When the officers went out to investigate they found him curled up in a corner of the cave sleeping the morning away. The place was littered with tin cans. When aroused Swift greeted his visitors cordially and explained to them his mode'of life and the reason therefor. “Civilization,” he said, “is only another evidence of how slavery can be lifted up and made ppsslbly more re* fined outwardly. The man who works for his living is nothing more or less than a slave. He is a slave to the whim of his employer, who may discharge him just like that,” and the negro snapped his finger. “If a man has an income today he may not have one tomorrow. The consequence is that both the man who toils for an employer and the man who draws his income are slaves to worry, neither of them knowing the peace and happiness that comes with the quiet life. Men would live forever if it were not for worry. That’s the most subtle destroyer the human family is prey to, for it leads td all other ailments whose windup is death. “Here I am living contented. No one can demand rent or taxes, and I find my living in the garbage on the town dump, many*fine morsels being left in cans and otherwise thrown away. There’s rich living in garbage.” The man’s talk was rational, though strange, and his conduct was quiet. Therefore, the officers left him to his lonely life. “There is a whole lot of genuine truth in his philosophy,” said the sheriff. “Men die from worry and what comes in its train, and the race will die more rapidly as it advances in civilization, for the burden of taxation grows apace.”

Built-in Oil Paintings.

As a rule oil paintings are not strikingly successful in the average house. They do not harmonize with either water colors, blacks and whites or brown photographs and if hung in the same room need a wall space to themselves. Often, too, the color of the wall is not a good background for an oil. A delightful disposition for a low sort of a figure study is to leave it unframed and fit it in to the central space of the wooden chimney piece. The picture, thus made a part of the structure of the room, and surrounded by dark wood, has a dignity and value which it would never achieve in a gold frame and hanging on a wall.

Strength of Fly.

An Englishman has made many ex periments with various insects, such as caterpillars, fleas, butterflies and files, which show how extraordinarily strong these insects are. A bluebottle fly weighing 1-28 of an ounce was hitched by a thread t&ta tiny wagon and drew a total weight of a little over six ounces, or practically 170 times its own weight A caterpillar harnessed In a similar manner puUed 25 times its own weight. A strong man with a like equipinent of large size can at most mow but ten times his own weight

THE FEAR OF DEATH

Its Ignobleness Is Thing That Haunts All Who Are Subject to It Paul boldly predicted that the New Testament gospel was without value unless its testimony sustained the claim that Jesus rose from the dead. The challenge has been accepted by the world and in fairness to conflicting opinions as to the truth of the affirmation it must be stated' that a very large portion of humanity, some of it being as devoted disciples of the Nazarene teacher as those who accept the Pauline statement, still reject that conclusion otherwise than as it applies to the continuity of life beyond the grave of every human being. Paul’s teaching and life abundantly support the sincerity of his belief. Likewise, the teaching and practice of those who dissent from Paul’s conclusion afford incontestible proof of their discipleship in proclaiming and establishing in the hearts of men the truths which the Nazarene asserted as being fundamental to the cure of those evils with which the social organism is afflicted in so far as human action can influence the making of a righteous civilization. Both schools of religious thought—it matters not what creed gives inspiration to their effort—are intensely sincere and earnest in attaining a common purpose, only their methods are different. An Exalted Type. Humanity as a whole —Christian and “pagan” alike —accepts Jesus of Nazareth as an exalted type of character, worthy of emulation by every man who seeks to serve his kind in his own essential teachings and the conformity of his life thereto. Jesus gave to the world a sound and simple philosophy for its universal welfare that surpasses in practicability that of the combined wisdom of all other teachers. And, to enforce the value of his teachings, he gave to the world the sublime example of one who not unwillingly yielded up his own life rather than desist therefrom or renounce any portion of it. The poet tells us that —

The fear o’ hell’s a hangman’s whip To haud the wretch in order. But where ye feel your honour grip. Let that aye be your border. Well, thanks to the teaching of the last two lines, and to good sound reasoning besides, hell has ceased to appeal to intelligent thought as the inspiration to right living. Rather, as Paul says, has the example and teaching of Christ “delivered them who through fear of deatl were all their lifetime subject to bondage.” Ought we to dwell upon this thought by carrying it to its legitimate conclusion? We guess not. We might be appraised unneutral in both religion and politics. But we do ask, if we may be so bold, that our readers do a little thinking for themselves along this line. Jesus Set Example. Jesus of Nazareth set the example for independent thought, which in its possibilities means the breaking of all bondage. War, with all of its horrors, at least contributes to breaking the bondage of the fear of death, and, to that tent, hastens the movement that Jesus launched to free mankind from Injustice and bring it into a knowledge of its relationship to the Father of all creation. The spirit will still be in a measure the slave of the body while we are capable of fear. The dream in our hearts is somehow to break through the last barrier of sea come out, as someone has said, on the other side of fear. The uselessness of the fear of death is as apparent to us as the sun in the sky. Its Ignobleness is a thing that haunts all who are subject to it. Christian, pagan and atheist are one in this. They feel that the life of the body itself can be fully enjoyed only when the fear of those that kill the body has been utterly overcome. ’■ Yes, the world is coming to "know more about Jesus.”

Solace for All Sorrow.

Wilt thou with St. John rest on the loving heart of our Lord Jesus Christ, thou must be transformed into the beauteous image of our Lord by a constant, earnest contemplation thereof, considering his holy meekness and humility, the deep, fiery love that he bore to his friends and his foes, and his mighty, obedient resignation which he manifested in all the paths wherein his father called him to tread. And now ye must gaze much more closely and deeply into the glorious image of our Lord Jesus Christ than I can show you with my outward teaching, and maintain a continual, earnest effort and aspiration after it. Then look attentively at thyself, how unlike thou art to this image, and behold thy own littleness. Here will thy Lord let thee rest on him. In the glorious likeness of Christ thou wilt be made rich, and- find all the solace and sweetness in the world.— John Tauler.

Look Up.

Look not down, with weeping Mary, into the grave. That is not where th ey are for whose dear presence you are seeking. Look away and up. The dead are not dead. Death hath no more dominion over them. Our Savior, Jesus Christ, hath utterly abolished death.—Rev. George Hodges