Jasper County Democrat, Volume 11, Number 4, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 25 April 1908 — The KING of DIAMONDS. [ARTICLE]

The KING of DIAMONDS.

By Louis Tracy,

Author of “Wings of the Morning,” “The Pillar of k Light.” Etc. < COPYRIGHT, 10O«, By EDWARD J. CLODB,

CHAPTER XIV. , MR ABINGDON took bls departure at an early hour. Hie excellent wife was indisposed, and her age rendered him anxious. Philip wrote a curt letter to Sharpe * Smith. He had given thought to their statements, be said, and wished to hold no further communication with either Sir Philip Morland or his representatives. Then he ordered his private hnn•om, intending to visit the Universities’ club. It was a fine evening, one of those rate nights when blase London abandons herself for an hour to the delights of spring. The tops of omnibuses passing through Park lane were enlivened by muslin dresses and flower covered hats. Men who passed In hansoms wore evening dress without an overcoat. Old earth was growing again, and If weather wise folk predicted that such an unusually high temperature meant thunderstorms and showers It would indeed be a poor heart that did not rejoice lu the Influences of the moment. Two powdered and noiseless footmen threw open the door as Philip appeared in the hall. He stood for a little while in the entrance buttoning his gloves. A strong electric light—he loved light—fell on him and revealed bls flrm face and splendidly proportioned frame. He cast a critical eye on a sleek horse in the shafts and smiled pleaaantly at the driver. “Good gracious. Wale,” he, said, “your cattle are becoming as fat as yourself!” “All your fault, sir,” was the chee> ful reply. “You don’t use ’em ’arf enough." “I can’t pass my time In being driven about town to reduce the weight of toy coachman and horses. Wale, If you don’t do something desperate there will be an ‘h’ after the ‘w’ in your name.” He sprang into the vehicle. With a lively “Kim up!” Wale got his stout ■teed into a remarkably fast trot. A tall man who bad been loitering and smoking beneath the trees across the road for a long time sauntered toward a tradesman’s cart which was standing near the area .gate of the next house while the man in charge gossiped with a kltchenjnald. “Beg pardon!" he said to the couple. “Is that Mr. Philip Anson’s placet” with an Indicatory Jerk of his thumb. "Yes,” said the man. "An’ was that Mr. Anson himself who drove away In a private cab?” “Yes,” said the girl. "Thanks! It does one good to see a young chap like him so Jolly and comfortable and provided with everything be can want In the world, eh?” "I wish I ’ad a bit of 'is little lot.” sighed the greengrocer’s assistant, with • side glance at the maid. The stranger laughed harshly. "It’s bard to say when ye’re well off,” he growled- “Up one day and down the other. You never know your luck." Away he went southward. His long vigil on the pavement near the railings seemed to have ended. In Piccadilly be took an omnibus to the Circus and there changed to another for the Elephant and Castle.

He walked rapidly through the congeries of mean streets which lie to the east of that bustling center and paus ed at last before a house which was occupied by respectable people. Judging by the cleanly curtains and general air of tidiness. He knocked. A woman appeared. Did Mrs. Mason live there? No. She knew nothing of her. Had only been In the place eighteen months. ’ The man evidently appreciated the migratory habits of the poor too well to dream of prosecuting further Inquiries among the neighbors. He strolled about, reading the names over the small' shops, the corner public house, the dressmakers’ semiprivate residences. At last he paused before a somewhat grim establishment—an undertaker’s -office. He entered. A youth was whistling the latest music hall song. "Do you know anything of a Mrs. Mason who used to live in this locality about ten years ago?” he asked. “Mrs. Mason? There may be forty Mrs. Masons. What was her Christian name an’ address?” - "Mrs. Hannah Mason, 14 Frederick street.” The yotitb skillfully tilted back his stool until he reached a ledger from a snelr behind him. He ran bis eye down an index, found a number and pulled out another book. "We buried her on the 20th of November, nine years since,” he said coolly, rattling both tomes back Into their places. “You did, eh? Is there anybody here who remembers her?” Something in the husky voice of this stark, ill favored man caused the boy to become leas pert "Father’s in,” he said. "I’ll ring for him.” • Father came. He had a vague memory of the woman, a widow with two children—boys, he thought Somebody helped her tn her last days and paid for the funeral—paid cash, according

to the ledger. He did not know who the friend was nor had he any knowledge of the children’s fqte. Workhouse, most probably. What workhouse? Parish of Southwark. Easy to find. Just turn so-and-so, and so-and-so. With a grunt of acknowledgment the Inquirer pgssed into the street. He gave an eye to the public house, but resolutely quickened his pace. At the workhouse he succeeded, with some difficulty, in Interviewing the master. If was after office hours, but as he had Journeyed a long way an exception would be naade in his case. Books wore consulted to ascertain the fate of two boys, John and William Mason, who would now be aged twenty and eighteen respectively. Youthful Masons had certainly beeq * In the schools—one was there at the moment. In fact—but none of them answered to the description supplied. The workhouse master was sorry. The records gave no clew. Again the man sought the dark seclusion of the street. He wandered slowly toward a main thoroughfare and entered the first public house he encountered. He ordered 0 pennyworth of brandy and drank it at -a gulp. Then he lit a pipe and went forth again. “That was an ugly lookin’ customer,” ■aid an habitue to the barman. " ’E 'ad a flee like a fifth act at the Surrey,” agreed the other. If they knew the toast that Jocky Mason had pledged so readily, they would have better grasped the truth of this unfavorable diagnosis of his character. “Ten years’ penal servitude, four years’ police supervision, my wife dead and my children lost, all through a smack on the head given me by Philip Anson,” he communed. • "Here’s to getting even with him!” It was a strange outcome of his tong imprisonment that the man should have acquired a fair degree of culture. He was compelled to learn in Jail to a certain extent, and reading soon became a pleasure to him. Moreover, he picked up an acquaintance with a smooth spoken mate of the swell mobsman and long firm order—a dandy who strove to be elegant even in convict garb. Mason’s great strength and indomitable courage appealed to the more artistic if more effeminate rogue. Once the big man saved his comrade’s life when they were at work in the quarries. The ihfluence was mutual. They vowed lasting friendship. Victor Grenier was released six months before Mason, and the latter now crossed the river again to go to an address where he would probably receive some news of his professed ally’s whereabouts. Grenier’s name was imparted under inviolable confidence as that which he would adopt after his release. His real name, by which he was convicted, was something far less aristocratic. Philip’s driver, being of the peculiar type of Londoner which seems to be created to occupy the dicky of a hansom, did not take his master down Park lane, along Piccadilly, and so to Pall Mall. He loved corners. Give him the remotest chance of following a zigzag course and he would follow it in preference to a route with all the directness of a Roman road.

Thus it happened as he spun round Carlos place into Berkeley square he nearly collided with another vehicle which dashed into the square from Davies street. Both horses pulled up with a Jerk, there was a sharp fusillade of what cabmen call "langwidge,” and the other hansom drove on, having the best of the strategical position by a stolen yard. Fhilip lifted the trapdoor. “Has he a fare, Wale?” "Yes, sin a lydy.” • "Oh, leave him alone then! Otherwise I would have liked to see you ride him off at the corner of Brutou street.” Wale, who was choleric, replied with such force that Philip tried to say sternly: "Stop tbat swearing. Wale.” » ‘ “Beg pardon, sir, I'm sure, hut I wouldn’t ha’ minded if it wasn’t my own old keb. Didn’t you spot it?” ’ "You don't tell me so. How odd!” "And to think of a brewer’s drayman like that gettln’ ’old of it. Well”— Wale put the lid on in case his emloyer plight hear any more of bis senirnents. Philip, leaning back to laugh, for Wale’s vocabulary was amusing if not fit for publication, suddenly realized the queer trick that even tne events in the life of an individual have of repeating themselves. In one day, after an interval of many years, he had been suddenly confronted by personages connected with the period of his sufferings, with the very garments he wore at that time, with the cab in which he drove from Cle’rkenwell to Hatton Garden. Abingdon had dined with him; Isaacstein had sent him a message; his driver even was the cabman who made him a present of 2 shillings, a most fortunate transaction for Wale, as it led to his selection to look after Philip’s London stable. All who had befriended the forlorn boy in those early days had benefited to an extraordinary degree. The colfee stall keeper who gave him coffee

grounds and crusts, the old clothes man who cut down the price of bls first outfit, Mrs. Wrigley, going hopelessly to her toil in a Shepbera’s Bush laundry: Mr. Wilson of Grant A Sons, the kindly Jeweler of Ludgato Bill, were each sought out and either placed tn a good business or bounteously rewarded for the services they had rendered. O’Brien, of course, was found a sinecure office at the Mary Anson home. As for the doctor, he owed his Harley street practice tp the millionaire’s help and patronage. ’ It is worthy of note that Philip never .Wore a watch other than that presented to him by the police of the Whitechapel division. It was an ordinary English silver lever, and he carried It attached to i knotted bootlace. Did he but know how far the historical parallel had gone that day—how Jocky Mason had waited for hours outside his residence in the hope of seeing lilm and becoming acquainted with his appearance—he might have been surprised, but he would never have guessed the evil that this man would accomplish, and in some measure accomplish unconsciously. He was not in his club five minutes when a friend tackled him for a concert subscription. "Anson, you are fonfi of music. Here Is a new violinist, a Hungarian, who wants a start. I heard him In Budapest last autumn. He Is a good chap. Take some stalls.” Philip glanced at the programme. “Eckstein at the piano, I see. He must be a star. Who Is the soprano? I have never heard her name before.” “Miss Evelyn Ath er ley,” read his friend over his shoulder. “I don't know her myself. Dine with me here tomorrow night. We will go and hear the performance afterward.” “Can you distribute stalls among your acquaintances?” “My dear fellow, I will be delighted. Sorry I can’t help Jowkacsy a bit myself.” “You are helping him very well. I will take a dozen, two for you and me, ten elsewhere for the claque.” “You are a good chap. Hello, there’s Jones! Jones is good for a couple. Don’t forget tomorrow night” And the go<jfi natured enthusiast, who was a terror to many of his friends, ran off to secure another victim. (To be continued.)