Walkerton Independent, Volume 51, Number 47, Walkerton, St. Joseph County, 1 October 1925 — Page 6

The Vanishing Men

CHAPTER Xlll—Continued —ll—- — thin film of dust covered everything. It was evidence of the caretaker's belief that no one would quickly return to note his delinquencies. Otherwise the house might have been nntouched from the moment when, in • spirit of pursued flight. Brena had shut the doors for the last time. A novel had been put upon a table tn toe upper ball, its pages spread downward where a reader had left it; in Brena’s own chamber the tray upon the dressing table still contained scattered pins and a railroad conductor's receipt for a cash fare. In the bathroom a towel bung over the edge of the tub as If a bather had Just come from the morning plunge and only the stripped beds spoke of the vacancy of the hollow-sounding rooms. To Peter, the whole house except for that part which she had occupied, seemed to be Hied with unpleasant ghosts of the personalities that bad lived In it. He opened no door without the feeling that one of these Invisible beings had Jost stepped out of the chamber from another exit. The stairs up which he had climbed were complaining gently, M if feet were following his; somewhere there sounded the fluttering of •oft wings— a startling noise, but explained by the dead chimney swallow that lay below the sill of one of the darkened windows —a tiny inert symbol of tragic imprisonment and death. Peter had found nothing In bls sur<ey of the house that could contribute to his purpose; be had looked without more reason for looking than a desire to see where Brena had lived aud to confirm his belief that except In the Übrary that had been used by Parma tee nothing could be found of any significance. It was not probable, he thought, that he would open some door to find the cotton broker’s withering corpse stretched out w’lth the handle of a murderer’s knife still sticking up from the collapsed ribs. He was about to return to the lower floor when be sow in front of him upon the bare dusty varnished boards a distinct print of a human foot. It was a small, wellformed foot that had made this print—and the next beyond and the next — until they stopped where the stair carpet began. There sprang into his mind the gibbering reference of Parmalee to footprints, followed Immediately by the thought that these might be the record of Brena’s own steps and then as quickly by the thought that Brena had tett long before this layer of dust bad accumulated. He found himself listening now, the victim for the moment of I fear, as if suddenly the contagion had reached him. At last he laughed. The prints were not those of a man: they ■night be those of a woman but the chances were overwhelmingly In favor •f their being made by the caretaker’s young barefoot boy. Peter smiled again and went down the stairs. At the bottom of this flight above ♦he ball stand was an old carved Chinese frame holding a dusty mirror. Peter glanced at this mirror, saw himaelf, stopped. The expression on his own face alarmed him. He Imagined that he was less ruddy, more gray of ■kin, that he had caught himself in ♦he unconscious pose of a man who involuntarily has begun to walk softly •nd look about alertly, that upon the face reflected in the glass was the first faint expression of terror written not as ft Is written upon the face of a man who is a coward before known dangers, for Peter whatever he might be could never wear that look, but the dim suggestion of fear of unknown dangers and of subtle influences, that may some day be engraved without regard to the courage or will of the Individual upon any sensitive human countenance. Peter had an unpleasant Idea; It was that his subconscious self was endeavoring to transmit to his conscious •elf some message of warning. For ♦he first time he felt the need to summon to his aid his clearest thought, his most alert state of mind, his keenest observations. Fortunately, perhaps, this moment of realization came to him as he opened ♦he door of Parmalee’s study. It commanded him to squeeze out of his firs: visit to that square chamber, lined with books to the celling In the style of old fashioned libraries, the most that orderly investigation could disclose. I That many things had been disturbed since the moment when Parmalee had walked out into oblivion was evident. The correspondence on the large desk In the center of the room had been gathered into a neat pile and ♦led with string; the papers once held by a waste basket, now empty, had been poured Into the open fireplace ■nd most of them burned. The chairs bad been covered with newspapers by some one without a sense of values sufficient to suggest covering also rare books, their pages exposed now to Insects and some of their splendid bindings to mildew and dry rot. The study had the air of having been cleaned and ■trafghtened. r Peter tried the drawers of the desk. Some of them had swollen with the damp, but none were locked ; they were filled with catalogues, pamphlets and with clippings in envelopes arranged sh alphabetical order. A deep drawer at the bottom contained several account books, many packages of canceled bank checks bound with elastic bands now dried and crumbling under the touch. On the whole Peter, who had Brena’s permission to examine anything he found, saw at first no in terest in these private papers, unless when time elapsed so that Parmalee after another three years could be de dared legally dead, an executor might find value In them as a record of the financial affairs of the vanished man. No doubt bls lawyer had seen many ®f them already. For the correspondence, however, Peter had a greater interest. He drew it toward him, untied the string, and having stopped to survey the room again from the chair that once had known for so many restless hours of panic and suffering, the warmth of Parmalee s living body, began to go thtsUly over the letter* there.

— By—- ♦ Richard Washburn Child (Copyright by K. P. Dutton A Co.) (W. N. U. Service) They were not illuminating. There were a few letters from stock brokers as to Investment changes, and a few bills. One of these bills was the only piece of matter that gave Peter the slightest Interest. It was from the famous old John Henry WycofT of Baltimore of whose death Peter had read by chance, a man remembered only among those who are book collectors, a dealer whose black coat was always covert'd with dandruff and who left a third of a million dollars. This bill was for two thousand eight hundred of these dollars—an account that had probably been settled by Parmlee’s attorney, Lanfrew. It was something of a bill for one book —a book described as Kolb’s privately reprinted version of the Jesuit MSS. entitled "Explorations of Father Carlos in Mescalero Desert,” shipped via registered post on 18th Inst. Below this statement of account were the words, "Please see letter.” There were two pin holes at the corner of the paper as If Wycoff had attached his letter to the bill. Peter thought It would be Interesting to see a book, so obscure, that was worth nearly three thousand dollars. He even wondered what plausible explanation the old dealer had given. His letter, however, was now missing Peter spoke aloud; he said: “Parmalee wanted that book badly.” He looked at the date of the bill. "I wonder if this was the zeal of a collector who has a passion for perfect copies.” The words defined a thought for Peter. It would be interesting to see whether "The Explorations of Father Carlos In Mescalero Desert” had disappeared with Parmalee when he had answered his strange Impulse to go to some unnamed destination. Peter turned toward the library shelves and then with the thought that a search among these volumes would be saved if he found a catalogue he went again to the desk. The copy of the book was there —under two or three other books —a handsomely bound volume of large pages whose thick paper rather than the length of the text gave It bulk. The book had been printed In English in 1830 from copies of manuscripts of Jesuits that with other records had been lost in the destruction of the mission church in Los Banos in 1812. The work was a beautiful piece of bookmaking In perfect preservation and Peter, though interested in quaint descriptions of this old missionary who had braved the terrors of thirst and heat to penetrate the country along the eastern border of New Mexico. was admiring also the rare skill and beauty of the pages when he suddenly came upon a hiatus In Its continuity. Page thirty-two began a description of the Lost Pueblo, where according to legend a city whose age was of centuries had been ended as a punishment for failing to worship the god of water. A scourge of thirst had been visited upon the degenerate Indian dwellers who had been so long protected by the terrors that the waterless desert must have had for more warlike tribes who would otherwise have attacked them. The well around which the pueblo had been built —the very life of the people—had been dried up in one night by a miracle. “Many and curious are the carvings upon the walls of this Lost Pueblo. To copy them and their heathenish devices I was sorely tempted and would have done so had time been given me.” said Father Carlos. “Especially I noted a figure of great size upon the wall that faces the set1 u Peter Tried the Drawerb of the Desk, ting sun, for this was a serpent With feathers like a bird, a figure such as is seen never but in the lands to the south and beyond the Great river. While waiting for day I drew the lines of the journey we had made which 1 here set aown again for the guidance of others. On the coming of morn we went toward the purple vapors of the—” Peter turned to the next page. It begun: “These accounts of treasure are but the poor speculations of the ignorant. Long after the sandstorms have covered the pretentious dwelling places of man such perversity will endure that worldly avarice will conjure into belief the tradition of fools.” This was not page thirty-three but page thirty-seven. The pages between were gone. For a moment DeWolfe was puzzled. This was not a perfect copy. After a moment s reflection he felt the humiliation of stupidity. Os course the copy he was examining was the Imperfect volume that Parmalee bad owned originally; the one sent by Wycoff probably would be found in its place on the shelve* where Brena’s

husband had put it—one of the last acts he ever did In that house. Peter, arising, walked along the rows of books looking at the titles; In less than three minutes he had found the other copy of the quaint old book and taken It down. He blew the dust off the once gilded top of its pages and as he did so he noticed that at one place the pages did not quite press close together. The volume fell open there—at page thirty-seven. The two preceding leaves of the book had been torn out! He went back to the desk chair, sat down, thrust ids feet out straight before him and whistled. After a few moments he opened the first copy of “Fattier Carlos” again and read over the paragraphs on page thirty-two. “Serpent with feathers like a bird.” he said as one who desires to hear the words so that their meaning shall be more clear. He was thinking of the scrap of paper In his pocket—that scrap of paper that Jim Hennepin had left Inadvertently with Brena when she saw him for the last time, that scrap of paper with the crudely drawn figure of the feathered serpent—the god, Kuk-ul-can—and the two scrawled words, “This Sign.” He took out this scrap and walking to a window, with Its barred grating through which the gray east wind was hurling more rain against the spattered panes, he examined the handwriting. With the manner of a guilty man engaged in some nefarious and shameful performance, he drew forth Brena’s letter of Introduction addressed to Lanfrew, ihe attorney, opened it, and holding the two pieces of writing side by side glanced from one to the other. The capital S In the word "Sign” was not like hera. And yet— He paced again, thinking; then uttering an exclamation, he pulled open the lower drawer of the desk and took out a handful of Parmelee's canceled checks. Shifting one behind the other, he went on hurriedly glancing at the dates until he had found one for eighty dollars made payable to “Brena Selcoss Parmalee.” Almost viciously he slapped this one over onto Its face and stared down at the endorsement on the back. “Pay to Bearer, Brena Selcoss Parmalee." “That will do,” he said and thrust It In his pocket. He returned to the lower drawer again, threw out upon the desk top the many little books that his casual observation had determined were Compton Parmalee’s private books of account. “Let’s see—seven years.” said Peter. “This one may do. Nineteen twelve. And this one. Nineteen eleven." Opening the first, he began a search of Its entries. For more than three hours he went over the items in the rough accounting system of Parmalee. At the end of his amateur audit he thrust the books under his arm, looked nt his watch, left the library, took his wet hat and overcoat, and before he went out of the house, lie stopped for a moment to listen to the bush within Its four evil walls and to the whine of the wind outside. There was time to see Lanfrew if he could catch a train for New York without too much delay, and if good fortune would hold the lawyer In his office. Peter wanted to get from the last man who talked with Parmalee one fact that had perplexed him. So much did he want to put an end to doubts which had grown that when he had reached the city and gone down town on a subway express and had stood at the mahogany rail in the office until he had heard that Lanfrew was there, he walked through and over the protests of a young law clerk, directly Into the room of the head of the firm. DeWolfe, with ids only characteristic vividness of expression. had once said, “There are three kinds of lawyers—silky pomeranians, lean foxes and bulldogs.” Lanfrew was distinctly a bull dog. Lanfrew spoke no sentence that lie dl<l not begin with a low growl; he gave the impression to his clients, perhaps by Intention, that he was tlie personification of wrath and of reckonings. and the fierce Instrument of a terrible and brutal Justice. This was worth many thousands a year to him. When he bad read Brena’s letter, he tossed it on tlie desk and, glowering at Peter, he said, “Well?” "1 came to ask —” DeWolfe began. “Yes?” the other interrupted with a growl. Peter pointed at the letter. "1 know,” snarled Lanfrew. “I'm at your service.” “You were the last man who ever

Vast Fortunes Theirs for Few Brief Hours

“1 was a millionaire on paper for a brief few hours,” said a clerk in a leading brokerage house and he added, "as a matter of fact 1 did not know 1 iiad been a millionaire until the chief bookkeeper shoved a paper under my nose and commanded me to sign on the dotted line. 1 then observed that I had held 75,000 shares of leading Industrial stock overnight, the certificate being in my name, and that I was about to sign away nearly $3,000,006 The thrill was brief.” In many brokerage houses everybody from the office boy up temporarily has much wealth In his or her name. Some years ago a certain house had put ten thousand shares of a Standard Oli stock In a clerk’s name. When the stock clerk came with the customary waiver for the erstwhile shareholder to sign, he was home on Long Island. Bick. A hurry call revealed he was dangerously ill and in no condition to sign anything and would not be for some while; In fact, the doctor said, “I hope we can save him.” He came around and signed the paper some weeks later, but he had actually been the possessor of $850,000 of stock for that time and IX ha had

saw Compton Parmalee," Peter began. “lie came to draw an instrument in my office.” “A will?” "Yes.” “Which leaves to his widow — Y’ “The man isn’t legally dead yet," Lanfrew said severely. “He has been —say gone—for several years.” “Apparently wiped out. Yes. And there is nothing more to be done. We exhausted every means except that of a nasty publicity. It’s futile. It Is folly for you to waste your time. Where did you meet Mrs. Parmalee—old friend?” "I met her In London.” The old lawyer arose, thrust his jaw out ns if making it flexible and ready to bite, and stared for a long time at Peter. “Are you the son of DeWolfe of the Equity.” “Yes.” “Let it alone.” “What alone?” “This affair. Let sleeping dogs He. You are a young man of —well —I know who you are. Used to know your father. I can talk to you couflden- ■ "Do Not Go Any Deeper, I Beg You. I Am In Mortal Fear,” it Said. tinlly. I’ll say this—Parmalee was a client sent up to me by our Texas correspondents, and as far as I atn concerned I wouldn’t care a snltcbet if 1 had never seen him.” Peter nodded. I “You saw the last of him.” Lanfrew looked out the window at ' the harbor that appeared to stretch ' out like a woolly gray blanket from the bases of monument buildings; be wheeled suddenly upon DeWolfe. “He came here that day—the lasr. He bad tickets for some place and , spoke of taking his wife, but be was excited. He spoke <>f an alternative. I lie drank. You know that?” "Was he— T' "No; he was nervous, excited.” "As If afraid?” "No.” Peter thought a moment before he said. "Would you say he was thinking ; of suicide?” "No. 1 wouldn't,” replied Lanfrew ' batting tiie tassel of the wind' w curtain with his stubby fingers. "He had , something else on Ids mind. He spoke vaguely. I didn't give a d —n what he 1 had on his mind. It was something. He spoke as if It were some errand — like a man who bad received a mes- ; sage." "What kind of a message?” “I don’t know. I got Che Impression—mind you now and mark me well. I don't say it was so—l got the impression that he was engaged in some —what shall I say—ln vest iga- | tlon.” "Investigation?" repeated De Wolfe j in a startled voice. Lanfrew nodded Ids bulldog head up I and down as if there were oiled bear- ! Ings in his invisible short neck. “He left no word for bls wife?" Peter asked, shooting the question when Lanfrew’s eves had met his. He saw the lawyer flinch. "I asked whether he left any message for Ids wife?” The other man coughed, felt under his heavy chin for his concealed throat and sat down in his desk chair. "To be frank with you, he did.” he said. “This of course Is confidential. It was too brutal to give her.” Peter leaned forward. He said, “Too brutal?” Lanfrew said, “Yes. He said to me, ‘lf 1 make up my mind not to take her away—if I go on a little journey myself, you tell her that I’ll be back in two weeks. You tell her I’m going to cut a knot —that I’m going to relieve the hell I’ve been living.’”

died, the firm would hav^ had to go through some legal gestures to unravel the red tape around an unindorsed certificate. —Wall Street Journal. Example of the Bee It Is very Important to remember, says John Burroughs, the great naturalist. that the bee does not get honey from the flowers; it makes honey from what it gets froth the flowers. What It gets from the flowers Is nothing blit sweetened water. The bee gets its sweet water, retires, thinks it oxer and by a private process makes its honey. So many nature writers fall to profit by the example of the bee. They go Into the woods and come out again and write about their experience—but they don’t give us honey. They don’t retire and subject what they find In the woods to a private process. They give us just a little sweet water, pretty thoroughly diluted. I have tried for many years not to give the world Just a bare record, but to flavor it with my own personality. Mercury ore mined in Spain and stocks in the government’s warehouses Is in greater supply than is needed by the entire world.

The two men sat silently looking at each other. “Os course I thought he’d telegraph her,” said Lanfrew argumentatively. “I didn’t take his message seriously. It wouldn’t have done her any good to tell her that brutal message, eh? And later? Well, I put the thing off. It cleared no mystery. It was inconseqentlal.” Peter asked, "Then you thought he blamed her?” Lanfrew threw up his hands, a gesture which said, “There Is no question.” “For what?” asked Peter. Lanfrew chewed upon an Imaginary mouthful; he said finally: “God knows. Some women—beautiful women —are poisonous. Rare cases. They carry a deadly poison, DeW’olfe. Some influence, some bane, some corrosive withering, devilish, fatal fluid or vapor or aura—whatever you choose. Who knows what it Is? But she —that woman—when you find her, will blast a man like —” He stopped. Peter drew a deep breath. He said almost Incredulously, “Did you tell me that you got the Impression from Mr. Parmalee that he was going to investigate something?" "Yes. Been invited to investigate something,” the lawyer said. DeWolfe stared at the carpet. After a pause he got up and held out his hand. “Let this alone,” said Lanfrew. “But of course if you want anything else, come in again." Peter went borne to his apartment. He found there an envelope brought by a messenger from the office of Pennington. Gould and Goodhue. It contained a cable from Brena. overseas. “Do not go any deeper, I beg you. I am in mortal fear,” It said. "I am coming to America. All my love." CHAPTER XIV By afternoon on Friday Petet had acquired certain Information that he had sought. In addition to acquiring the Information that would lead him to three men. he had wrestled with the problem presented by Brena’s cable. He had sent her word when he had arrived safely In New York that he was full of hope and optimism. “We shall win,” he had said, "because any other thought Is too terrible to bear.” He could not understand then what new facts she had to Justify her strange message to him unless It were an anonymous warning such as that which he had received In Liverpool. To accede to her request and to proceed no further along the lines of Inquiry which he had chosen as significant would menn delay and perhaps a loss of the thin threads that he had picked up to unravel. Peter had In him a great deal of the fiber of determination, a good deal of a single-track purpose that frowned upon iilin and made him wince when he became tempted to postpone his plans and indulge his desire In waiting idly for her to come. He knew from the beginning that this man was the side of self that would win; he was only doing that which he knew in bls inner consciousness he would do when he cabled a reply to her that said, "Do not come yet. I will cable you again. If you have Important news do not be afraid to send It.” He was glad when that was done. There was an additional reason for it; he was not yet prepared to meet Brena Selcoss for the second time. He must first clear the way for relationship that had in it no reservations. The first thing to be done was to confer with one Joseph Smallwood of Drennan & Co., the publishers. When Peter first saw Smallwood he felt a little like one who has been sent to an armless dentist. The man was pale and flavorless like the cream sauce of cheap restaurants. DeWolfe had difficulty in believing that this was the man to whom he had been referred. “Mr. DeWolfe, how can I serve you?” he said in a low drawl as If he were pulling his words like molasses candy into long strips to match his own long body. “I understand that you not only maintain a connection with Drennan hut undertake commissions and pass upon technical questions independently.” Smallwood’s smile was of the kind that snaps on and off like an electric light. Now he snapped It on; it was gone in a fash —a string-pulled smile. "Oh. yes,” he said wearily. “Did you want to find —” “A book.” said Peter. "What book?" “’The Explorations of Father Car los in the Mescalero Desert.’ Here Is the whole story." Peter gave him a card with the details. “I want to buy a perfect copy.” Smallwood shook his head from left to right and then to left again with a sad expression followed by the camera shutter smile. “It will take a long time,” he said tenderly as If he bore the weight of all human suffering upon his heart. “It Is a very rare book; Anderson, the sugar refiner, owned a copy. That Is ho^ I happened to know. I appraised his library. Perhaps It will take a year.” “A week," said Peter. "No more.” “A week,” repeated Smallwood, closing his eyes as if resigned to anything, come what would. (TO BE CONTINUED.) Man-Made World If J believed in Changu. 1 should sketch a wofld where women would live upon shelved, shelves without ladders. Ony would take them down when one wanted theitt. They would be delighted to be taken down, clapping their little hands, crowing like babie^ and yet understand one’s deepest thoughts. one would also take them down tl the morning to da the housework. At other times one wotiid live sternly and bravely with other men as stern and brave, jnt II one came to need again the women vho Would be akin to those very expensive dolls wno say “pa-pa” and “ma-ma” when you preen a spring. When one got tired of their repertory, one would send them to the shop to have a different record put in.— From “Tu Trlumuii of Gallio.” by W L. George

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Wax for Record* Carnauba wax, used in the manufacture of phonograph records, comes from Bahia, and several other states in Brazil. March of Progress "What in the world are you doing with the music room?” “Making It over for radio.”

Permanent • roads are a good investment —not an expense How Much Are Poor Roads Costing You? 5,000,000 of America’s 18,000.000 motor vehicles are recognized as an economic necessity on the farm. Is your car giving the full efficiency of which it is capable —and at the lowest cost per mile possible? Not if you are jolting over bumps and ruts. Not if you get stuck in the mud. In addition to the time you thus lose along the way, you also pay from one to four cents a mile more in gasoline, tire and repair bills than you would pay on permanently paved highways. Think, too, how many so-called improved roads have gone to pieces within the past few years, thereby piling up huge maintenance and rebuilding costs. Contrast all this with the record of Concrete Roads —the roads that have repair built out and maintenance built in. Firm, rigid and unyielding, free of bumps, ruts, holes, mud and dust, they are, in every way, the most economical roads. Tell your Jghway officials you want more Concrete Roads. Such an investment will pay you big dividends year after year. • • • Ler us give you all the facts about Concrete Roads, including the experience of other communities. Ask for our free booklet, R 3PORTLAND CEMENT ASSOCIATION 111 West Washington Street CHICAGO A National Organization to Improve and Extend the Uses of Concrete Offices in jo Cities

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Italians Win Macaroni Trad* Italian macaroni is winning over that from America in Great Britain, and shipments from this country are dropping in volume. Choking Him Off “Truth Is stranger than fiction.” “If you’ve been fishing don’t tell the rest of it."