Jasper County Democrat, Volume 11, Number 2, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 11 April 1908 — The KTNG of DIAMONDS. [ARTICLE]

The KTNG of DIAMONDS.

By Louis Tracy,

Author of “Wlnfia of tha Morning,” "Ths Pillar of Light,” Etc.

CHAPTER XIII. JL TALL, strongly built man. aged L A about forty-five, but looking / A older by reason of bis grizzled • hair and a face seamed with hardship, a man whose prominent eye! Imparted an air of alert Intelligence to

an otherwise heavy and brutal countenance disfigured by a broken nose, stood on the north elde of the kill# End road and looked fixedly across the street at a fine building which dwarfed the mean bouses on either band. He had no need to ask what it was. Carved in stone over the handsome arch which led to an Interior covered court was its title, “The Mary Anson Home For Destitute Boys.” A date followed, a date ten years old. The observer was puzzled. He gazed up and down the wide thoroughfare with the manner of one who asked himself:

“Now, why was that built there T’

A policeman strolled leisurely along the pavement, but to him the man addressed no question. Apparently unconscious of the constable’s observant glance, be still continued to scrutinise the great pile of brick and stone which thrust its splendid campanile into the warm sunshine of an April day. Beneath the name was an inscription: “These are they which passed through great tribulation.” A queer smile did not improve the (naff's expression as he read the text

“Tribulation! Tbafa it.” be continued. “I’ve had ten years of It And it started somewhere about the end of that fine entrance too. I wonder where Sailor la, and that boy. He’s a man now, mebbe twenty-alx or bo, If he’a •live. Ob, I hope he’s alive! I hope he’s rich and healthy and engaged or married to a nice young woman! If I’ve managed to live in purgatory for ten long years.-a youngster like him should be able to pull through with youth and strength and a bagful of diamonds.” Without turning bis head he became aware that the policeman had halted at some little distance. “Of course I’ve got the mark on me," said the man savagely to himself. “He’s spotted me all right Well, I’ll let him see I don’t care for him or any of hla breed. I never did care, and It’s too late to begin now.” He crossed the road, passed between two fine Iron gates standing hospitably open and paused at the door of the porter’s lod-o, where a stalwart commisslonnatre met him.

“Have you called to see one of the boys?” said the official cheerfully. “No: I’m a stranger. It's a good many years since I was in these parts before. In those days there used to be a mews here and some warehouses •t the back, with a few old shops”— “Oh, I expect so, bat that Is long before my time. The Mary Anson borne was founded ten years ago, and It took two years to bnild. It’s one of the fin«st charities In London. Would yon like to look round?” “Is that allowed?”

“Certainly. Everybody la welcome. If yon go In by that aide door there, you’ll find an old man who baa nothing to do but take visitors to the chief departments. Bless your heart, we lose half our boarders that way. People come here, see the excellences of the training we give and offer situations to boyß who are old enough.” The man appeared to be surprised by the commlßsionnalre’s affability. He did not know that civility and kindness were essential there if any employee would retain an excellent post. He passed on, measuring the tessellated court with a backward sweep of the eye. In the sunlit street beyond the arch stood the policeman. The visitor grinned again, an unsuitable and sulky grin, and vanished. The policeman crossed over.

“What la that chap after?" be In* q aired. “Nothing special,” was the answer. “Last time he was here the place was a mews, he said." “Unless X am greatly mistaken, he has a ticket In his pocket.” "Ton don’t say! Do you know him?" “No. I’ll look him up in the album In the station when I go off duty." “Well, he can’t do any barm here. O’Brien takes visitors over a regular round, and, in any case, the man seemed to be honest enough in his curiosity.” “You never can tell. They’re up to all sorts of dodges.” “Thanks very much. I’ll ring for

O’Brien’s relief and tell him to keep an eye on them, as the old man is blind as a bat.” Meanwhile the stranger was being conducted up a wide staircase by a somewhat tottering guide, who wore on the breast of bis uniform the Crimean and Indian mutiny medals: As he hobbled in front be told, with a strong Irish brogue, the familiar story of the Mary Anson home—how it fed, lodged and clothed 600 boys of Brutish parentage bom In the Whitechapel district; how It taught them trades and followed their careers with fostering caret how It never refused a meal or a warm sleeping place to any boy, no matter where he came from or what his nationality, provided he satisfied the superintendent that be was really destitute or needed his small capital for trading purposes next day.' The gregt central hall where the 600

regular Inmates ate their meals, the dormitories, the playgrounds, the drill shed and gymnasium, the workshops, the library, the theater, were all pointed out. but the big man with the staring eyes was not interested one jot in any of these things. “Who was Mary Anson t" he asked, when the well worn tale was ended, “and how did she come to build such a fine place beret'’

“Ah. ye may well ax that,” said old O’Brien. “Sure, she dldh’t build It at all at all. She was a poor wlddy livin' alone-st wid .one son, Mr. Philip that is now. She was a born lady, but she kem down In the worruld and died, forlorn an’ forgotten, In a little shanty in Johnson’s Mews, as it was called In those days." ( “I remember it well.” “Ye do, eh ? Mebbe ye know my ould shop, the marine store near the entrance to the court T” '’“Yes.” “Arrab, ye don’t tell me so. Me eyes ire gettin’ wake, an’ I can’t make out Jer face. What’s yer name?” “Oh, I’m afraid we didn’t know one another. I can’t recall your name, though I recollect the Bhop well enough. But, if Mrs. Anson died so poor, how was her son able to set this great house on its legs? It must have cost a mint of mopey.” “Fafx, ye’re right Quarter of a million wlnt afore there was a boy under Its roof. And they say it costs £50,000 a year to keep it/goin’. But Mr. Philip would find that and more to delight the soul of the mother that's dead. Sure It’s aisy for him. In a way. Isn’t he the Diamond King!” “The Diamond King! Why is he called that?’’

“D’ye mane to say you nivver— Man alive, wbat Bart of creation did ye live In that ye didn’t bear tell of Mr. Philip Anson, the boy who discovered an extra splsbul diamond mine of bis own, no one knows where? Sure, now, what's wrong wld ye?” For the visitor was softly using words which to O’Brien’s dull ears sounded very like a string of curses. "I’m sorry,” growled the other with an effort. “I’ve been to Africa, an* I get such a spasm now an’ then In my liver that I can hardly stand.” “That’s no way to cure yourself—profanin' the name of the Almighty,” cried O’Brien.

“No. I’m sorry, I tell yon. But about this boy”— “There’s no more to see now, If ye plaze. That’s the way out” O’Brien was deeply offended by the language used beneath a roof hallowed by the name of Mary Anson. The sightseer had to go, and quickly. Another commlsslonnaire, who was observing them from a distance, came up and asked O’Brien what the stranger wag talking aboot.

“Ye nlvver heard slch a blaggard” said the old man indignantly. “I was In the middle of tellln' him about Mr. Philip, when be began to curse like ould Nick himself.” In the Mile End road the rawboned person who betrayed such excitement found the policeman awaiting him. He sprang on to a ’bus and purposely glared at the officer in a way to attract his attention. When at a safe distance he put his fingers to his nose. The constable smiled. “I knew I was right," he said. “I don’t need to look twice at that sort of customer." And he entered the Mary Anson home*again to ask the porter what had taken place.

It wag an easy matter for Jocky Mason, released from Portland prison on ticket of leave, after serving the major portion of a sentence of fourteen years’ penal servitude—the man be assaulted had died, and the exconvict narrowly escaped being banged -to ascertain the salient facta of Philip Anson’s later career. It was known to most men. He was biographed briefly In “Wbo’t Who" and bad often supplied material for a column of gossip in the newspapers. Every free library held booka containing references to him, It was quite Impossible that the source of his great wealth should remain bidden for all time. In one way and another It leaked out, and be became identified with the ragged youth who created a sensation In the dock of the Clerkenwell police station. But this was years later, and the clever manipulation of Mr. Abingdon, as bis estate agent, and of Mr. Isaacstein, as bis representative In the diamond trade, completely frustrated all attempts to measure the true extent of tfie meteor’s value.

For now Philip owned a real diamond mine In South Africa, he bad a fine estate In Sussex, a house in Park lane, a superb seagoing yacht, a colliery In 'Yorkshire and vast sums invested In land aim railways. The latent value of bla jgetns had been converted Into money earning capital. Mr. Abingdon proved himself to be a very able business man. When the administration of Philip’s revenue became too heavy a task for bis unaided sbouldera, be organised a capital eatate office, with well trained lawyers, engineers and accountants to conduct its various departments, while he kept up an active supervision of the whole until Philip quitted his university and waa old enough to begin to bear some

portion of the burden. They agreed to differ on this important question. Philip was fond of travel and adventure. With great difficulty bis “guardian” kept him oat of the armjL- but compromised the matter, by allowing the yonng millionaire to roam about the odd comers of the world In his yacht for eight months of the year, , provided he spent four months of the season in London and Sussex attending to affairs. In this month of April he was living In bis town house. In July he would go to Fairfax Hall, in August to Scotland and% month later would joyfully fly to the Forth, where the Sea Malden awaited ban.

This lady, jwhose waist measured eighteen feet across and whose length was seventy feet, with a fine spread of canvas and auxiliary steam, the only siren sble to charm him. He was tall now and strongly built with something of the naval officer In his handsome, resolute face and well set up figure. As s bobby bs bad taken out a master mariner's certificate and he could navigate bis own ship In the teeth of an Atlantic gals. He loved to surround himself with friends, mostly Oxford men of bis year, but he seldom entertained ladles, either on board the Sea Malden or In either of hla two fine mansions.

He avoided society In Its general acceptance. refused all overtures to mix In politics, took a keen delight in using his great wealth to alleviate distress' anonymously and earned a deserved reputation' as a “bear’’ among the few

match making mammas who managed to make his acquaintance. In other respects as the boy was so was the man—the same downright character, the same steadfast devotion to bis mother’s memory, the same relentless adherence to a course already decided on and the same whole hearted reciprocity of friendship. As he stood In bis drawing room before dinner on the evening of the day Jocky Mason revisited the locality. If not the surroundings, of his capture Philip’s strong face wore an unwonted expression of annoyance. He walked to and fro from end to end of the beautiful room, pausing each time he reached the window to gaze out ever the park.

A servant, who entered for the purpose of turning on the electric lights and lowering the blinds, was bidden almost impatiently to wait until Philip and his guests were at dinner. A telegram came. Anson opened it •nd read: » J

Was dressing to come to your placo when Grainger telegraphed for me to act as substitute Lincoln quarter sessions. Must go down at once. FOX. “No answer,” he said, adding to himself: “That’s better. Fox’s caustic humor would have worried me tonight. 1 wish Abingdon would come. 1 am eager to tell him what has happened.” (To be continued.)