Rensselaer Journal, Volume 11, Number 5, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 11 July 1901 — THE IVORY QUEEN [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

THE IVORY QUEEN

A Detective Story Of a Chicago Suburb*. The Murder at The Grange and How Its Mystery Wjc Solved by DarreoL the American Lecoq.

BY NORMAN HURST.

f CO -ST '.YUED. ] And all this time I was securely bound, with not a glimmer of light to shew me who my assailants were. The consultation became more excited, and then at last it subsided into grunts, and some one addressed me again. “You have put yourself in this position,” he said, speaking in French, with a foreign twang, “by interfering in other people’s business. You will be allowed to depart”—my heart beat wildly—“when you have become one of us.” “Who are you ?” “That will not concern you if yon were born under a lucky star. If not, you will have cause to know. We are about to draw lots with an object.” The pistol barrel touched my temple again. “Will you share in the drawing or say goodby to life!” “What do we draw for?” I gasped in terror. “To decide who shall kill the daughter of a traitor. We never kill the culprit bimelf. Our revenge is more ingenious. We leave him to the last. Do you consent to become one of us in this lottery?” “No,” I faltered, and then ere the word had left my lips, so strong is the love of life, I relented and gasped, “Yes.” “Then draw 1” A box was placed underneath my hand, and again a voice cried, “Drawl” I thrust in my hand and drew out a small marble. “You have had a fair chance,” the same voice said. “You are the first There are 89 white balls and 1 red.” And still we were in darkness as the box went round. A lamp was lighted* a lamp onlj throwing a small circle of light upon a black table, and each man approached, held his hand in that circle and opened it. White, white, white, white 1 I knew mine was the red. I felt it burning my flesh as I gripped it within my hand, and as I opened it beneath the light it rolled forth—red!

“When yon have earned yonr admittance, you will be one of us,” the spokesman said, and then I was conducted down the pitch dark stairs and thrust out into the street. I gazed around to locate myself and at last found my way back across the Seine and to my hotel. I cannot believe the events of the night lam too ill to realize them. It cannot be true 1 It is too horrible 1 Oet. 10.—It is true! Pinned on the coverlet of my bed this morning was a piece of paper on which was scrawled, “If you go to inform the police, you will be assassinated as you leave the office.” I cen write no more. It is true 1 Oct. 15.—1 have seen her, seen the woman whom I have been bidden to kill —to kill because her futher has offended a bloodthirsty clique. It was at the opera. I was sent so that I might know her and remember her. Can I ever forget her ? My stall was close to her box. I have seen the loveliest woman in this world, watched her for an hour only and become her slave. She noticed it. She blushed, and yet looked kindly upon me. She did not. could not, realize that she had been marked for slaughter for her father’s sins.

Oct. 18.—I have met her, clasped her hand, gazed * into her eyes and told her with mine that I adore her. I-could almost bless the evil minded gang who made all things so smooth for me, who gave me the entree to iter. Fools I They do not know that I will give my lifs willingly for her. But of what avail will that be? They will kill me first ana then choose another to murder her. Astrea de Lanez! Tho sound itself is" music I I must warn her. I must save her. Bnt how? Oct. 80.—It is all over. She is mine! A month ago I know hor not. and today slm lias owned —owned with tho blushes of innocence—that sho loves me. loves me, Josialt Marsden, one not worthy of her lightest thought The world is n dream. Oct. 31. —1 have received another note from tho assassins, pinned on uty coverlot, as before. They call me “comrade” now, but show imputience and suy I must earn admittance within the next 14 duye—kill her and earn admittance. Nov. 2. It bus been a terrible day. I have told her everything, told her my history, and we have considered what to do. She trusts me. She will quit Paris sudden]/, leaving it to me to follow when can without drawing those fiends upon her, and we shall be married. I have seen her father. He consents.

Nov. 4.—1 have fooled them. A half written note urging her to meet me in an unfrequented part of Paris, which I intentionally left in my room, drew attention from her for one night, and she has left Paris to wait for me in London. While a ntun was dogging me as I walked she was far away. Perhaps they will revenge themselves upon me, but 1 care not. She is safe and well provided for.

Nov 10.—I have heard from her.Site has passed through London and is staying in Scotland, where I know she will be safe.

Nov. 26.—Her father was discovered shot dead in Paris this morning. I dare apt toll her. Who will be the next t

What is this nameless gang? What their purpose ? I dare not say here. I am overcome with dread at every hour of the day. Every shadow is a lurking assassin. Rome, May 8, 1872.—Six months since I have written in my diary, six months of misery. Touring through southern Europe, always followed, always watched, my heart aches to see her again, but I dare not. for with me I should carry death. Marseilles, May 20.—Free! I can scarcely realize it. There has been a terrible railway accident, and the one who has tracked me through Europe is dead. I could almost pity the poor wretch as I saw him lying torn and mangled in the fearful chaos. Only a dozen unharmed out of that trainload and I one of them. Goodby to horror, misery *nd concealment. Tomorrow morning I leave for London by sea, and let them find me if they can. The Grange, Norcombe, Ills., U. S. A., June 80.—We have fled to this quiet spot in the United States, and here we shall tyo safe—safe from the fiends who have pursued us. What a gloomy diary 1 I ought to recommence today and write in one all gold and silver, with a white silk cover, embossed with orange blossoms But why should I write at all ? Let me close the .book and, forgetting all the past, live only in the happiness of the present. It is an ugly dream. Let me forget it and close the book forever. [Here there was a blank page in the diary, and then in darker ink it went on.] The Grange, Norcombe, May, 1884. —I have come home broken, despairing, ready for death, anxious to die. All I

had is gone, all that I valued lost. Let death come—a happy release, be it by the assassin’s knife or otherwise, but let it come. Speedily, now as I sit and write, come death and bring me peace I Death only comes to those who fear him. Death shuns those who would welcome him with open arms, grins his ghastly grin and cries: “Live on I You’d be too happy if I took you. Live on till you fear me mora Then I’ll strikel” But I cannot seek death. Life is nothing to me, and yet there’s my son Astray. I feel lam mad. I almost hate him because he reminds me so much of her. Twelve years since 1 hist opened my diary. Twelve years ago my hand touched these pages, and I bade goodby to gloom—bade goodby to gloom when it was yet to Itecome blacker than ever. I remember it as though it were but yesterday—remember that she was loosing over tne as 1 wrote, iter arm upon my shoulder. I had nothing more to write then. Every day would have been the same, all happiness, and that reads so feeble when set down in black and white. Misery becomes intensified. The writing makes it colder and harder. Then Astray was born. I loved him then, perhaps because she did. Now I have no love for any one. only for the past. My heart is filled with hatred—a hatred deep and hitter, that will keep me alive until it is satisfied. Here at The Grange we were happy and wanted nothing more. v * - r—■ 1 fie m ooimvuKD.]

Only a lying telegram of yesterday upon the table.