THE MASK OF FAME.

Oamaru Mail, Volume XXXVIII, Issue 10592, 22 October 1910, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE MASK OF FAME.

(liv Arthur Stringer.) -itched the man in the panama "los'dy- JM.v eyes followed him i st C ,iio moment' he first turned eastfrot° (|j - Avenue. They wore *u nil *i iiix as he veered irresolutely »" wurtl again into Madison Square. fi]" ' niire'iiinilessucss of his move- ' • irri.sted my attention. The f nt e that drifted listlessly in past the U cut statue and wandered on under trees, in some way reminded \i e "f rl|V own. I, too, knew what it ? e ": 0 'circle doggedly and sullenly iiV lik'' ;l !>e " ~0- v ''P a g>ng" tnc "corjY<;i' night 'for that fugitive known Sleep *~'&° I continued to watch '' niii'tlv and closely. I had lost my •"Vst in'iho white-faced girl who sat '.'.ljn i«-eiity paces of. me, looking, ij'„j and st"'") "P :lfc tne September

> Va.s the man's figure, thereafter, • t challenged my attention, for this *! marked the only point of moves!!it i" «'liat seemed a city of the dead. Mras. i remembered, long past midli!i the hour of suspended life in the canons of the • lamp-striing f ,l js. when the last taxi had hummed reveller home, and the first %■ Vvaiiiin had not. yet rattled up ft the East Biver ferries. fcl'siit there, listlessly watching the JlUiv moving figure with the wide v'lr'ii" pulled own. over its face. £« was something still • youthful 'vat the man, for all the despondent '" /T) t«> the shoulders. I asked myV'iilly wno <)r u '- uat ns could be. I P -ik-red if, like myself, he was merely miuc'l '>>' t ' )e curse Qi wakefulness, r." t *j ie jauic bloodhounds of unrest ?_„ f (I liiin through the dark hours of £fjii<'ht. I wondered if he, too, was escape from the grinding '"'tiiiiHi'V of life into some outer pas-

'["'fair him thread his indeterminate .r'aloiiji the winding park walks. I Is liiin fiance, wearily up at tlic mast* aiiM'i'it.v of the Metropolitan irtrc-r. .'i'"l tncll tnrn and gaze at the iicl Diana so unconcernedly poised X;? her stolen Sevillian turrets. I i-Thiin desolately about the ;', IIV , with its bench rows filled with iTiilii! and motionless sleepers.. These ';—„:!<. with their fallen heads and .r?[c-il linihs, with their contorted and Ifllcss hollies, made the half-lit ", ari i as horrible as a battlefield. [Qtfl ''.'■' l -"' heavy shadows of the rii'ire-L";. they .seemed like the bodies Tjfjil irn n. like broken and sodden iijjr; »vi r which had ground the Jiff!; oi carnage. The only murmur „"sniiiicl n! life was the fountain, with iiroliMiin of slowly rising and slowly :j|; wai'-r. like the tired pulse-beat '[the tired city. "ifct man in the- panama hat seemed ofin'i something companionable in this "iremciit. for he slowly drew nearer. J; came to within three benches of [j E f(> I tat. Then he flung himself i'je fin an empty seat. I could see -iithitp and haggard face as he watchJtk splashing fountain. I could see £ shadowy and unhappy eyes as he 'lied back his hat and mopped his l"i;t forehead. Then I saw him sudyr imry his head in his hands and \ ijiorc. minute by minute, without

:-:■;!""■ ita lie made his next movement, ins a startling one. It sent a tingle jj nerves scampering up and down my ViijoiH l . for I saw his right hand go tra to his pocket, pause there a jsan. and then suddenly lift again. lilt did so, my eye caught the white Jjritor of metal. I could see the flash \i revolver as he thrust it up under iia l'.riin and held the nickeled bar3ci":o against his temple, just above a lean jaw bone. - •' I:ksso sudden, so unexpected, that esl have closed my eyes in a- sort of jifentnry wince. The first coherent ■dit that" came to me was that I

rif never reach him in time. Some srer second ■thought was to the effect t: even my interference was useless,

;:le and his life were his own, that m once set on self-destruction will \k kept from it by any outside in-

I; even as I looked again at his filed iigure. I heard his little gasp [amethiug that must have been beta fear and defeat. I saw the'arm bly sink to his side. He was looking fcight before him, his unseeing eyes

i- ititli terror and indecision. !: es then that I decided to interv. Tu do so seemed only my plain tirkent duty. Yet I hesitated for a shi, pondering just how to phrase _ycpenin <_; speech to him. Erin as I took a sudden deeper say of resolution and was on the sil or' missing to his side, I saw him bthe revolver vehemently from him. bent glimmering and tumbling along aecpery green grass. It lay there, isiiit if high light against the dark-

'T'.ff. 1 looked back to the stranger, dyiv liis empty hands go up to-his is. It v,as a quiet and yet a tragic Eiirr of utter misery. -Each palm fcfre,--.'! close in on the corded &k li.uk s. with the finger ends hard par. the eyeballs, as though that S: press-ire could crush away all -;r swl all outer vision.

lieu 1 turned back.toward the fallen so!viT. .As 1 did so. I noticed a figure ■ 'hi.: step quietly out and pick up ::Bi-:.!V'i:. it was the white-faced girl '-': !*'! -s'l looking up at the stars. «ro I fully realised the meaning cf - ; r :>v.-n.. in. slipped the weapon I[ 't-;g!g ami passed silently on, "a tiie winding asphalt walk, bo- '*■'■}}?■ : ■ ie. s df sleepers, toward the ?■■ Ija-re was .-ometbing arresting'in ; - tii:n yiiiing figure, something ©fly piupMM.nil and'appealing in the 'j*-'«' rli.. liiili'-vcilcd head. iTscillat.'d for a moment, undecided ;"'v!;;.-h to approach. ..But a second

p l ' ■■'- t!'r ui-.tu iii the panama lint, ahfil ;!:, i-,. j;, ],| s utter and impas'fsiKon. !■;; ii.-c-cl me to cross over 'iiira. ',r ,i!: •'; !::iii;! mi his flaccid shoulder ■Jslniuk ir. He did not move, at n ! » 1 >!i ;ik him again. Then he *»«<! :i >i,n\- and resentful glance at 'wan! i>) help you if I can," I beJ- pKzl.-.l -is to liow to proceed. He .' wm ;.i help vtiu if I can," I cs-•-f:. ;i... i >ul|" ] e t mv hand rest on ;;W.ld ( . r . - ■ .* flh. tro 'way!" he ejaculated in ! 'J iiVih-viu shaking my hand from ls!n;:;i(l,. : - ':V ' Li!';."' lie filing back. "I tan. J],, shrunk back and moved V !!;i:i he turned on me with a *5tK(-nr -,\i:ii w as volcanic. _\V'"''" S s: 'kc. leave Ine alone!" er tv,-o on near-by benches !,°P. aii.i at us ■ with their ';<«iiy ii;«hi;V rent. eyes. " , '■ivii v.-iiv alv vou making a fool ™ lr^: '':;• this:-" I demanded. : . Uu ,s i;n ~ business," he " roScd ; " ' ; hltc ' lKl to keep ifc up? " l y.?; I '!i>::'t.' : he ting back. "I '■>;; v. i;i yon be so good as-to; talk J'';'". Is is sullen anger seemed yip- from that exaltation i°. ' r ' | ; ' :ll; 'n imputes to • last mo|:;f' " <ven took an effort to be him. ;°: 1 v,-(,:i\ ;•' Kas ] n - s prompt re- :;■ ll l j:'-!!'pened all the Quixotic. ;,"'" "iy i'.niy. Tlien he rose to his a\ Y V'''' i "' r " rd i«p- "And if you [Ji'- g .'- L <v,u "} here,'l'll kill you!" tf :iIlv " ; . :n s-ome way, struck me |J V ' I laughed out'loud. But I sJi v "; >u ' i mther time on him. I thinking of the other ;■ ■ u'..-. «.:. ;i :._;i v -.uvsterious and more *7- i'-~'.i.-u. in Mack. w 1 "!" !,lli, id and strode out b'l tin- tn. t -.s. just in time to-see somite r.hd white-faced . young Madison Avenue and pass.. !itl> r< i J'"'"''''" ft granite-columned 'j' ' 1 !"' i-' 1 " towering obelisk of a ' nmuoru p ( ] „f commerce. .1 kept y" c » this street end as it swalta,.i , ,: i"'- Then I passed out ck V> fr !"are, and under the ,*, Ma| . -uid into .Twenty-fourth

P> tho t; ;nc . i reached Fouith E: / a.:sim Plight sight of tl.« 'jjj I,IJ ii;i!n>. It \?s mo\mg cast■on t,,.. s:n! j}, &I( j e 0 f t ( le gtieet, Iks. ne(i a!i 'J impassive as a sleep naif way in Lexington Avenue ■ »ic- woman stop, look"* slowly „"«•. si'.'l ih.-n -o slowly lip the J" , ot » rrd-briek liruso. SJie did not iV c oulcl sco, !nu lot herself m with Oner tho door ha'd closed-on faru"" 101 ' 011 tonard this house.'. Jo ""Ci.- at such an hour,, was out

of the question. But 1 made a careful note of the street number and also oi the fact that a slip of paper pasted on the sandstone doorpost announced the fact of "Furnished Booms." I saw not only that little was to bo gained there, but also that I had faced my second disappointment. So 1 promptly swung back to Madison. Square and the fountain where I. had left the man in the panama fiat. I ran my eye from bench to" bench- of sleepers.- But he was not among them. I went over the park, walk by walk', but my search was unrewarded. ' Then I circled into- Broadway, -widening, my radius of inspection. >f shuttled back and forth along .the side streets. I 1 veered tip and down the neighboring avenues. But it was useless." Tho man in the p2nama hat was gone. ' * Then, to my surprise, ( as I paced the midnight streets a sense of physical weariness crept over me. I realised that I had walked for miles.l had forgotten my own troubles, and that most kindly of all naicotics, utter fatigue, crept through me Jike a drug. So I wont, home and went to bed. And'for the first time, in weeks I felt the Angel of Sleep stoop over me, cf her own free will. For the first time in weeks there was no need of the bit- ' tor lash of chloral hydrate to. beat back ilie bloodhounds cf wakefulness;! I fell into a sound and unbroken, slumber, and when I woke up Benson, my man, was waiting to announce that my bath was ready. Two hours later I was ringing the bell of a certain old-fashioned, redbrick rooming house in East TwentyFourth Street. . i knew little enough about 'such places, but this one was obviously uninviting, from the rusty hand rail to tho unwashed window draperies. Kqually unprepossessing was the corpulent and dead-eyed landlady in her faded blue house wrapper; and equall,-) depiessing did I find the slatternly and bare-armed servant who was delegated to lead me up through the mustsvsnioliing halls.' Tho third floor front, \ was informed, was tlic only room in ho house empty—though its rear neighbor, which was a bargain at two-dollars and a half a week, was soon to bo vacated.

I took the third floor front, without so much as one searching look at its hidden beauties. The lady of the faded blue wrapper omitted her first spark of life as I handed fiver my four dollars. The listless eyes, i. could see, were touched ■'with regret at -tho' thought, that she had not asked for. nlore. I tried to explain to her, as she exacted a deposit for my pass key, that-I was likely to be irregular in my hours and perhaps a bit peculiar in my habits. These intiiintions, however, had no ponderable- effect upon her. She first abashed me by stowing tho money away in the depths of her open corsage, and ..then -perplexed me by declaring that all she set out to dp, since her legs went back on her, was to keep her first two- floors decent. Above that, apparently, deportment could look after itself: tlic upper regions beyond her ken could be Olympian in their moral laxities.

As I stood there smiling over this discovery, a figure in black rustled down tlie narrow stairway and edged past us in the half-lit hall. The light i'ell full on her face as she opened the door -to the street. It outlined her figure, as thin as that 'of a mediaeval saint from a missal. It was the young woman I had followed from Madison Square. Of this I was certain, from the moment the. light fell on her thin-cheeked face, where anxiety seemed to have sharpened the soft oval of the chin into something masklike in its sharpness. About her, quite beyond the fact that her eyes were the most unhappy eyes I had ever seen, hung a muffled air of tragedv, the air of a spirit both bewildered and baffled. But I could see that she was, or that she had been, a rather beautiful young woman, though still again the slenderness of the figure made me think of a saint from a missal. I I was still thinking of her as I fol- ! lowed the sullen and slatternly servant up the dark stairs. Once-m my new quarters. I glanced absently about at the sulphur-yellow wallpaper and the melancholy antiquities that masquer-, aded as furniture. Then I came back to the issue at hand. "Who is that young woman in black who happened to'pass us in the hall?" I casually inquired. _ "Caii that!" was the apathetic and quite enigmatic retort of the barearmed girl. I turned to inquire the meaning of this obvious colloquialism. "Aw, cage that zooin 1 bug!" said my new-found and cynical \ young friend. "She ain't that kind]" "What is she ?"-J asked, as I slipped a bill into the startled and somewhat incredulous hand of 'toil. The transformation was immediate. "She aiir't nothm'!" was the answer. "She's just a four-flush, an also-ran! And unless she squares wit' the madam by Sat'rday, she's goin' to do her washin' in somebody else's bath tubr" Through this sordid quartz of callousness ran one siiver streak of lack. It was nbiin that I was to be on the same floor Vith the girl in black. And that discover? seemed,quite enough. I waited until the maid was lost in the gloom belowstairs and the house was qiiiet again. Then I calmly and qnietlv stepped out into the little hall, pushed open the door of; the rear .room, and. .■•■. lipped inside. I'experienced,, as I did so. a. distinct and quite pleasurable quickening of .the pulse. . I" found mvself in a mere cell of a room, with two dormer windows, facing a disorderly vista of chimney pots, and brick walls. On the sill of one 'window stood an almost empty milk bottle/. Beside the other window was a trunk marked-with the -initials "H. W. and the almost obliterated words "Medicine Hat." , . ..'' , About the little room brooded an -almost forlorn air of neatness. On one Widl was tacked a picture post card inscribed "In the Devil's Pool at Banff.

On !■ nother was a ranch scene, an un'ii'cur.led photograph which showed a 1.e.: rrhing and clear-browed girl on a uhite-dappled pinto. On the chmtzcovercd bureau stood a half-filled.carton of soda biscuits. Beside this, again, lv- an emptv candy box. From the iniiror of this bureau smiled down a v ice that was familiar to me. It was :V ma; azine print of Harriet Walter, the voting Broadway star who had reached success with the production of "Broken Ties," the same Harriet Walter v. ho had been duly announced to •nam- Percy Adams, the son of the traction magnate. My own den, I cmember, held an autographed copy of the same picture. Beyond this, however, the room held little" of interest and nothing of surprise. Acting on a sudden and a possiblv foolish' impulse, after one final look at, the room -and its record ot ■courageous struggle. T took a bank note from rav pocket, folded it, and opened •i bureau drawer. 1 dropped the bi.l into the drawer. Then J stood staring dov.n, with the drawer still open, for betore me lav the revolver which t'v girl had carried away, the night oef:n e, from Madison Square. I went back to my own room and s<it down in the broken-armed rocker, tiding in vain to find some key to th J mystery. But no light came to me. ']' was still puzzling over it when I hoard the sound of steps on the uncarpercd stairwav. They were very slow aivl faltering 'steps. As I stood at the half-opened door, listening, I felt sure I heard the sound of something that vas halfway between a sob and a gasp. Then came the steps again, and then the sound of heavy breathing. I heard the rusTle of paper as the door of the back room was pushed open and then "the quick slam of the door-. This was followed by a quiet and almost inarticulate cry. It was not a call, pnd it was not a moan. But what startled me into sudden action was the noise that followed. It was a sort of •soft-pedalled thud, as though a'body had fallen to the floor. - ,

I no longer hesitated* It was clear that something was wrong. I ran to 1 the closed door, knocked on it, and a moment later swung it open. As I stepped into the room I could see the girl lying there, her upturned face as white as chalk, with "bluish-gray shadows about; the closed eyes. Beside her on the floor lay a newspaper, a flariu<T headlined afternoon, edition. I stood .staring stupidly, down at the white- face, for a. moment or two, hefore it came homo to me that the girl had merely fallen in. a faint. - Then, seeing the slow heat of a pulse in. the thin throat, I dropped on onfr knee and tore open the neck- of "her ,waist. - I got "water .from the 'Stoneware jug on .the Withstand/ and sprinkled the placid and

colorless brow. I could secy as I lifted her up on the narrow white bed, 'how bloodless and ill-nurtured her body; was. The girl was half starved; of that there was no shadow of doubt. She came to very slowly. As I leaned over her, waiting'for the li<?avyliclded eyes to -open,' 1 let my glance wander back to the newspaper oii, the floor. I there read that -Harriet iWali ter, the young star of the "Brdken Ties" Company, had met with a serious accident. Jt had occurred while riding down. Morningside Avenue in a touring car-driven by Percy Alward Adam?, the son of a well-known traction magnate. The brake had apparently' .refused to work on Cathedral Hill, ■ and the car had collided with a pillar cf the elevated railway at the corner .of 109 th Street. Adams himself had escaped \\ ith a somewhat lacerated arm, bub Miss Walter's "injuries were more serious. She had been taken at once to, St. Luke's Hospital, a few blocks away. She had not, however, regained consciousness, and practically all hope, of recovery had been abandoned by' the doctors.

I was frenziedly wondering what, fie could bind these two strangely diverse .\oung women together, when the girl beside nip gave signs of. returning life. I was still sousing a ridiculous amount of water on her face and neck when her eyes suddenly opened. They looked up at mc, dazed and *ide with wonder. "What is it?" she-asked, gazing about'the room. Then she looked back at mo again. "I think you must "have fallen," I tried to explain. "But it's all right; you mustn't worry." My feeble effort at reassuring her was not effective. I could see the perplexed movement of her hands, the iinuttcrcd inquiry still in her oyes. "You see, I'm your new neighbor, ' I. told her, "and 1 heard you from my room."

. She did not speak.. But I saw her lips pucker into a little sob that shook her whole body." There seemed something indescribably childlike in the movement.' It took a fight to keep up my air of bland optimism. "And now," I declared,-' Tin going to slip out-for a minute and get you a little wine." She made one, small 'hand gesture- ~-f protest, but I ignored it. I 'dodged, 'it for my. hat, descended the stairs to the street, got Benson on the wire, and instructed "him to send the motor hamper and two bottles, of Burgundy to mo at once. Then I called up St. Luke's Hospital. There, strangely enough, 1 was .refused-all information as to Har-' riefc Walter's condition. It was -not oven admitted, in fact, that she was at present a patient in that institution. ■ The girl, when I 'got back, was sitting in a rocking-chair by the window. She seemed neither relieved nor disturbed by my return. Her eyes were fixed on the blank wall opposite her. : Her colorless face showed only too plainly that this shock from which she had suffered had left her indifferent to all other currents of life,'as though every further stroke of fate had been rendered insignificant. She did not even turn her eyes when I carried the hamper into tho room and opened it. She did not look t\p as I poured the wine and held a glass of it out for her

to drink. She sipped at it -absently, brokenly, reminding me of a bird drinking from a saucer edge. But I make hor tak" more of it. I persisted, until I could see. a faint and shell-like tinge of color creep into her cheeks. ■ Then she looked at me, for the first time, with comprehending and strangely grateful eyes. She made a move, as though to speak.. But as she did so, I could see the quick gush of tears that came to hor eyes and her gesture of hopelessness as she looked down at the newspaper on the floor. "Oh, I want to die!" she cried brokenly and weakly. "I want to die!"

Her words both startled and plexed me. Here, within a few hours' time, I was encountering the second young person who seemed tired of life, who was ready and willing to end it. "What has happened?" .I asked, as 1 held more of the Burgundy out for her to drink. Then I nicked up the afternoon paper with the flaring headlines. She pointed with an unsteady finger to the paper, in my hands. "Do you know her?" she asked. "Yes, I haiipen to know her," I ad-

mitted. i "Have you known her long?" asked

the girl. "Only a couple of years," I answered. ''Since she first went with Frohman." Then the possible truth flashed over me. They wore sisters. That' was the strange tie. that hound them together: one the open' and flashing and opulent, and the other the broken and hidden and hopeless. "Dp you know . Harriet Walter?" I asked. She laughed a little, forfornly, bitterly. The wine, I imagined, had rather gone to her' head. "I am Harriet Walter!'.'_ was her somewhat startling declaration. ■She was still shaken and ill I could see. I took the Burgundy glass from, her'hand. I wanted her mind to remain lucid. There was a great deal for me still to fathom. ."And they say she's going to die?" she half declared, half inquired; as her eyes searched my face. \ '."But what will it mean to. yon?"- I. demanded. She seemed not to have heard; so I repeated the question. .. "lb means the end,". she sobbed, "the end of everything!". '■: "But why?" I insisted. . She covered her face'with her hands "Oil, I can't tellyou," she moaned. "I.can't explain." "But there must, be some definite reason why this young woman's death should end everything for you." The girl, looked about her, like. :i life prisoner facing the four blank walls of a'cell. Her face was. without hopo.Nothing but _ utter misery, titter despair, was written on it. Then she spoke, not. directly to me, but more as though she were speaking to herself. ' ■ ' ' . v ;'. "When she dies, Idie, too!" T demanded to" know what this meant. I tried to burrow down to the root of the mystery. But my efforts were useless. I could wring nothing more, out of the unhappy and tragioeved girl. -'' -, . ' \ 'The enigma proved too much for me. The" more I thought it over the more it began to get on. my. nerves. So I determined- on. a prompt right-about-face. I decided to begin at the other end of the line.. ,

My first move was to 'phone for-this car and make my. way tip to St. "Luke's Hospital. There to my surprise, I was again refused; all information as to 'the condition of Harriet Walter. It was not even admitted, when I became more insistent', that .she was'in,the hospi-: tal. '. ' .';■■'-' ' ;.

"But- I'm a friend of this young lady's," I tned to explain. ' And I've a light to krou of her condition " Tlio calm-e-sed official looked ?t me quite mi moved •'Tins >oiiTg lad\ seems to have ver; raanv friends. And: some of them seem to be vei\ pecuhai." "What do \ou mean b;. that 0 " I demanded. For answer he pointed to a figme pacing up and down in the open stie»t. , ~ . . "There's another of these iiicnds who've been insisting on seeing her,'' 1 he explained ,with a shrug of extenuation. The uniformed attendant of that earbolized and white-walled t-emple of pain must have seen my stait as I glanced out at the slowly pacing figuie. Foi it was'■that of a young man wearing ■». Panama hat. It was the youth I had met the night before, in. Madison Square. ' .' "Do jou happen to know that- man s v name?" I asked. * "lie gave it as MaJTorj —James Mailoiy." was the answer. I 'wasted no more time inside those depressing walls. "1 was glad to get out to the street, to the open air and the warm afternoon sunlight. I had already decided on my next step. J Whether the man in the panama hat recognised mo or not 'I could not say;. If he did soj he gave no sign of it ( Y-et I could 'see that he resented my addiessmg him r although-he showed ho surpiise that*l,did so,by name. It wad not until point-blank" asked if he had been inquiring about Harriet Walter s that' any trace of interest came', into his face. . _, - " j I s Ho replied, with 'considerable feroIcity, that ho had." 'One'glimpse of thif 'unsteady fiugcis and twitching ejeliils

showed me the tension under which Jio was struggling. I felt genuinely sorry for him. "I happen to know Miss Walter," I told him. "And if you'll be so good as to step in my car, I can-tell you anything you may want to know." "Is your name Adams?" the whitefaced youth suddenly. demanded. "It is not," "„I answered, with considerable alacrity. Foil his face was not pleasant-"to'look at. ■' "Then why can you-.tell mc what 1 want to know?"" he-askedj'.,still eying me with open hostility. 1 struggled to keen my temper. It" was a case where one could afford, to be .indulgent. "If we each liavc a friend in this ladj', it's . not unreasonable that -we should be able to'be friends ourselves," I told him. "So let's clear the cobwebs by a spin down town.". "Gasoline wont' wash my particular cobweb away," he "retorted. There was something likable' about his audacious young face, even under its cloud of bitterness.

"Then why couldn't you dine with me, at a very quiet club of mine?" I , suggested. "Or, better still, on the verandah of the Claremont, where we edit talk together." He hesitated, at first, but under my pressure he yielded, and we both got in the car and swung westward and then up Riverside to the Claremont. ■There 1 secured a corner piazza table, overlooking the river. And there I exerted a skill of which I had once been proud in ordering a dinner which I thought might appeal to the poignantly unhappy young man who sat across the table from me. I could see that he was still looking at me, every now and! then, with both revolt and sullen bewilderment'written on his lean young face. It would be no easy matter, I knew; to win his confidence.. . "I suppose you think. I'm crazy, .like the rest of them?" he suddenly demanded. I noticed that he had already taken his third- drink, of wine.

"Why should I think.that?" "I've ' Had enough to make me crazy!" he ejaculated, with that abject self-xjity which''marks.the last milestone on the avenue of hope, " "Perhaps I could help you," I suggested. "Or perhaps I could advise you."

"What good's advice when you're up against what I'm up against?" was his embittered retort.

He was apparently finding relief in the champagne. I found a compensating relief in merely beholding that look of haunted and abject misery going out of his young eyes. ' . "Then tell nio what the trouble, is," I said.

He still shook his head. Then he suddenly looked' .up. ''-..-' | "'How long have you known Harriet Walter?" he asked.. "From the time;" I told him after a moment's thought, "when she first appeared for the Fresh Air Fund at the Plaza, That was about two years ago —when she first went with Frohman."

"I've known her for twenty years!" was tho youth's quite unexpected exclamation. "We grew up together out West."

"Where out West?" I asked. "In Medicine Hat—that's a Canadian priarie town."' ■ "But she's younger, than you?" "Only two years. : She's twentytwo ; I'm twenty-four. She changed! her name from' Wilson, to Walter when she went on the stage." "Then you are close friends?" I asked, for I could see the wine had loosened his reticent young tongue. "Friends!" he scoffed. "I'm the man she promised to marry!". Here. I told myself,, was a pretty kettle of fish. I knew the man before mo was not Adams. Yet it was several weeks now since Harriet Walter's engagement to young Adams had been officially announced. And there was nothing unstable or predaceous about the Harriet Walter I had known.

"Would, you mind telling me just when she promised to marry you?" I asked. "Remember, this is not prying. I'm only trying to get behind that cobweb!"

"She promised me over two years ago," he answered me, quite openly. - "Definitely?" I insisted.. "As definite as pert and ink could make it. Even before she gave in, before she gave the promise, we'd had a sort of understanding. -That was before I made my British Columbia strike out West. She'd come East to study for the stage. She always said she would make a great actress. We all tried to keep her from it, but she felt it was.her career. She'd been having a' hard time of it then, those first six months. So I came through to New York and wanted to take her back, to get her out of all that sort of thing. But she put me off. She wouldn't give in to being defeated in her work. She gave me her promise,, but asked for a' vear's time. When that was up, she'd made her hit. Then, of course, she asked for one year more. And in the meantime I made my own hit —in timber limits." "But-, hasn't she justified the tunc you've given her?" I inquired, remembering the sudden fame that had come to her. the name- in electrics over the Broadway theatre, the .lithographs m the shop'windows, the interviews in .the Sunday papers. '- "Justified?" cried the young- man across the table from me. "After Id 1 waited two years, after she'd given me her promise, she's turned round and promised to marry this man Adams. > "And she has never explained? - "Explained? She won't even see me 'She had me put out of her hotel. She. went off to Narragansett. She pretends she doesn't even know me. This sounded very unlike the Harriet Walter I had known. There had seemed little that was deliberately venal or treacherous in that artless-eyed young lady's nature/ , "And what did you. do?" I asked. • "What could I do? I waited and tried a<*ain. I felt that if I. could only see her" face to face, she'd be able to explain, to make the whole thing seem less like insanity." "And she wouldn't even see you, meet you?" , . , , i "Not once. Something's set her against me. Something's changed her. Slic never used to be , that sont—11GVG1*! "Aiid you insist all. this is without rhyme or. reason?" . ■ ■■ "Without one jot oi v reason. That s what made it so hopeless. And last night, when I heard of this accident, I put my pride in. my pocket and tried still again. It was the same thing over again. Thev seemed to take mc for a crank, a paranoiac of some kind, up there at the hospital. And then I gave ud. I felt I'd about reached the end of my rope. I thought it all over, quite' calmljv and decided to kill myself.- I walked the streets half the night; then I sat down and decided to blow my brains out. But I couldn't do it. I was too much of a, coward. I hadn't the courage!" _■ _ "That would have been very foolish, was my inadequate reply, for at a hound mv thoughts went back-to the night before and the scene m the square. "Well, what would you have done? was the prompt and. bitter challenge of the unhappy youth facing me. : I thought for a moment before-.an-swering him.

""Why," I temporised, "I'd have tried to get down to the root of the mystery. I'd have made some effort to' find out the reason for it; for everything seems to hare a'• reason, you know." . , Again I heard him emit his listless little scoff of misery. "There's no reason," he declared. "There must he," I maintained. , "Then show me where or what it is," he challenged.

"I will," if said with Sudden conviction. "There's a reason for all this and I'm going to find- - it out!" He studied my face with his tired and unhappy ycung eyes, as I sat there 'trying to fit - the edges of the two broken stories together. It was not casv; it was like trying 'to • piece together a. vase of cloisonne- Work. "And liow will yon find it-out?" he was listlessly inquiring. Instead of -answering him, I looked up, fixed my eyes on him, and asked another question." "Tell me this:" if there is a reason, do you-still care for her?" He resented- the. question, as I was afraid he would.

- "What concern-is that of yours?" "If -. all. -this -tiling's. a mistake," it's going, to be some concern of yours," I told hyh. He safthere in dead silence, for a"* minute or two.

I "I've- always "cared for her," -he said !j —and ' I knew; what his answer was | going t'o he befpre "he spoke. "But it's no use. It's all' over. It's over and

done with. There's not even a misI take about it." 1 • "There must be. And I'm going to find that out!" I reiterated. I was already; groping and probing along my new line of procedure. "Come along with me," I cried, a little presumptuously, a little excitedly, ■'and by ten o'clock to-night I'll have your reasons for you!" 'My flasll-iu-the-pan enthusiasm was shorter-lived'than I had, expected. The tingling and winelike warmth soon disappeared. A reaction set in once we were out in the cool night air. And in that reaction I .began to see difficulties, to marshall doubts and misgivings.

The suspicion crept over mo that, after all,"! might have been talking to a man with a slightly unbalanced mind. Delusions such as his, I knew, were not uncommon. There were plenty of amiable cranks who carried about some fixed conviction of their one-time intimato association with the great, the settled belief that they are the oppressed and unrecognised friends of earth's elect.

Yet this did not altogether fill the bill; it could not explain away everything. There was still'the mystery of tho girl in the Twenty-fourth Street rooming house. There was still the enigma of two persons claiming to be Harriet Walter.

On my way down to that rooming houso an idea occurred to me. It prompted me to stop in at my club for a minute or two, leaving Mallory in the car. Then I dodged back to the reading room, took down from its shelf a "Who's Who On the Stage," and turned up the name of Harriet Walter.' There, to my discomfiture, I read that Harriet Walter's family name was recorded as "Kellock." And instead of being a Canadian and born and brought up in the Western town of Medicine Hat, as young Mallory had claimed, her birth-place was recorded as Lansing, Michigan. She had been educated at the Gilder Seminary in Boston, and had later studied one year at a. well-known dramatic school in New York. From there she had gone on the stage, taking small parts, but soon convincing her management that she was capable of better things. In little over a year she had been made a star in the "Broken Ties" production. The St. Luke's officials, after all, had not been so far wrong. Tho young man in the panama hat was a paranoiac.

It was, however, too late, to turn back. And there was still the other end of the mystery to unravel. So I ushered young Mallory up tho musty stairs to my third-floor room, and seated him with a cigar and a magazine between thoso four bald and depressing walls with their sulphur-colored paper. Then I stepped outside and carefully closed tho door after mc. Then I crossed the hall to the girl's room and knocked.

There was no answer. So I opened the door and looked in. The room was empty. A sense of frustration, of defeat, of helplessness, swept through me. This was followed by a feeling of alarm, an impression that I was, after all, too late.

I crossed the ropnij with a sudden premonition of evil. ' 'jL'hen I turned up the gas and pulled open the top drawer of the chintz-covered bureau. There lay my bill. And beside it, I noticed with a gasp of relief, still lay the revolver.

I took tho weapon up and looked it over, hesitating whether or not to unload it. I still held it in my hand, staring down at it, when I heard the creak.of the door behind me. It was followed by a sudden and quite audible gasp of fright. It was the owner of the room herself, I saw, the moment I swung around. It was not so much terror in her eyes, by this time, as sheer surprise. "What are you doing here?" she asked, with a quaver of bewilderment. "I'll answer that when you answer a question of mine," I temporised, as I held the revolver up before her. "Where did you get this?" She did hot speak for a second or two. "Why. are you spying on me . this way?" "she suddenly demanded. She saiik into a chair, pulling nervously at her pair of worn gloves. "You insist on knowing?" I asked. "I've a right to know." "Because you are not Harriet Walter," was the answer I sent, bulletlike, .at her. Sue raised her eyes to mine. There was neither anger nor resentment on her face. All 1 could see was utter weariness, utter tragedy. "I know," sho said. She spoke very quietly. Something in her voice sent a stab of pity through me. "I'm only trying to help you," I told her. "I only want to clear up this maddening muddle." "You can't," she said, very simply. "It's too late."

"It's not too late!" I blindly persisted. "What do you know about it?" was her listless and weary retort. ''l know more about it than you imagine," was my answer. "I know where this revolver came from, when and where you picked it up, and just how near you came to using it."

She covered her face with her hands. Then she dropped them to her side, with a gesture of hopelessness. "Oh, they'll all know now," sho moaned. "I knew it would come, some day. And I haven't the strength to faco it. I haven't the strength!" I felt, in some way, that the moment was a climactic one. "But how did it begin?" I asked, mora gently, as I. gazed down at the fragile and girlish body huddled together in the chair. "It began two years ago," she went oil in her tired and throaty monotone. "In began when I saw I. was a failure, when I realised it was all useless, that I'd made a mistake."

"What mistake?" 1 demanded, still in the dark. "The mistake I wasn't brave enough or big enough to face. I thought it Was the life I was made for, that they'd never understood, at home. Even he couldn't "understand, I thought. Then they let mo come. I worked, oh, so hard. And when I left the school all I could get was a place in a chorus. I was ashamed to tell them. I pretended I had a part, a real part. He kej)t arguing .that I ought to give it Up. He .kept asking me to come back. I wasn't brave enough to acknowledge defeat. I still thought my chance would come; I kept asking for more time."

"And tlieh?" I prompted, "Then' I couldn't even stay at the work I had. It became impossible, I can't tell you why. Then I did anything, from moving pictures to reader in the city library classes. But I still kept going to the agencies, ._ to the Broadway offices, trying to get a part. And things dragged on and on. And then I did this —this awful thing." "What awful thing?" I asked, trying to hridgo the ever-recurring breaks in her thought. But she ignored my interruption. "We'd studied together in the same classes at the dramatic school. And people had even said we looked alike. But she was born for that sort of Jife, for success. As I went down, step by step, she went up. He wrote me that I must be getting famous, for he'd seen my picture on a magazine cover. It was hers. T pretended it was mine. I pretended I was doing the things she was doing. ' I let them believe I'd taken a new name, a stage name. ' I sent them papers that told of her success. I became a cheat, an impostor, a living lie. I becamo Harriet Walter!" At last the light- had come. I saw everything in a flash. , I suddenly realised the perplexities and profundities of human life. I felt shaken by a sudden pity for these two blind and unhappy spirits, at that moment so close together, yet groping so foolishly aiid perversely along their molelike ■trails.

L I was still thinking of the irony of it | all, of the two broken and lonely young lives even at that moment under, tile same roof, crushed under the weight of .their unseeing and uncomprehending misery, when the girl in the chair began to speak again. "It was terrible," she went on, in her passionate resolve to purge her soul of. the wholo corroding blight. "I didn't dream what it would lead to, what it would cost. I dreaded every advance she made. It wasn't jealousy, it was more than that; it was fear, terror. She seemed to be feeding on me, day by day, month by month. I knew, all tho time, that the higher she got the lower 1 had to sink. And now, i in a different way, she's taken every- \ thing from me. Taken everything, without knowing it!"

"No, you're wrong there,"' I said. "She hasn't taken ■"everything;" "What is there left?" was her forlorn query. "Life—all your real life. This has been a sort of nightmare;.but now it's over. Now you can go. back and begin over."

"It's too late!" She clasped her thin hands hopelessly together. "And there's no-one to go to." "There's Mallory," I said, waiting for some start as the name fell on her ears. But 1 saw none.

"No," she cried; "he'd hate and despiso'me!" "But you "still care for him?" I demanded.

"I need him," she sobbingly acknowledged. "Yes—yes, I always cared for him.- But he'd never understand. He'd, never forgive me. He's grown away from.me.". "He's waiting for you," I said. I. stood looking at the bowed figure for a moment. Then I slipped out. of the room.

I stepped' in, through my own door and closed it after me. Young Mallory, with his watch in his hand, swung about from the window and faced me. "Well, it's ten o'clock —and nothing's settled!" "It is settled," was my answer. I led him across the quiet hall to the half-lit back room.

I saw her startled and groping motion. Then' I heard his cry of "Harrie" and her answering cry of "Jamie," as the white face with its hunger and its ■ happiness'looked* upon into his. Then I quietly stepped outsifle and closed the door, leaving them alone. From that moment I was an outsider an intruder. My part was over and done. Destiny, within one short day, had wOven cine more double-thread into the web of Time.