ED.

Oamaru Mail, Volume XXXVII, Issue 11805, 14 December 1912, Page 1 (Supplement)

ED.

(By Berkeley Smith.)

It was that quiet, knowing smile of hig which gave to his personality a certain subtle magnetism. When ho spoke, his voice was pitched low, and what he said was ter.-e and to the point. In his keen gray eyes, and about the corners of his clean-shaven under lip, there lurked the outward expression of his sense of humor, which was ever ready to keep the smile company. There was a calm steadiness about that slim, wiry body of his which late hours had not shaken, and winch his early training as a champion fe&ther-weoight boxer was in a large measure responsible for. To the unobservant stranger, his smile was unfathomable. To me, if often expressed, clearer than words, all he waa about to say. Though Ed was still on the better side of thirty, he was so old in "life" that he rarely told a story, and nothing surprised him—nothing. He had a positive antipathy for mixed drinks, cigarettes, and the races. He, who had in his early youth been a game sport, had now become a philosopher. Moreover, there was not a type in Paris that fctood before him; whom he did not know as well as he did his ice chest, or the contents of the carefully wiped row of bottleg back of him. He shook a cocktail to the freezing point slowly for his friends, so as not to crush the ice—a pet theory of his own; briskly for the stranger. When, his active hands were dry, he l had a habit of feeling if his pearl pin was safe nest to the crimson carnation flaming in the lapel of his spotless white duck working coat. Without him the Sans Souci Bar would have sunk like many other Parisian bars hare sunk—to failure.

It was a brand-new bar, tucked away in a side street close to the Oare St. Laazre; a glittering bar in bird's-eye paaple and brass, -and its habitues used it daily before and after the races. They were a worldly lot, well pickled in experience, who knew horses and women, poverty and temporary wealth, and that rare exhilaration- which luck brings to the winner. French and Italian, English and American, rich sons from the Argentine Republic, well-to-do jockeys, and the reverse. Immaculately dressed paupers. Ex-trainers with sure tips and advice. Aviators, chauffeurs, stranded touts. Blase cocottes, rouged, plumed, and unemotional. The spendthrift and the miser, and men who lived solely for the races, suntanned from days at Longchamps, at ftlaison Lafitte, Autenil, and Tremblay. Many of thessr kept their racing glasses hung back of the car, and their mackintoshes in a closet, the door of which opened between two brass mermaids provided with electric lights—a closet which stood close to the racs ticker at the end of a short flight of stairs which led down to a small supper room—deserted and stale as a crypt in the daytime. Vibrant with ragtime and noisy with the laughter of women at night. There were nights, too, when this supper room downstairs was choked to suffocation, and the twin electric fans whirred uselessly -in the smoke.

There is something feverish in this atmosphere. It breeds a thirst. It is the forerunner of remorse.

At precisely ten minutes to three in the morning Ed would -drop down the short flight of stairs, and quietly announce in two languages—American and French—that it was time_ to close. The honest cash register upstairs, which never lied, would then be ceremoniously disgorged of its daily prey by the proprietress, Madame Martinet —La Belle Martinet she was once called, and was still celebrated- for her past beauty. One of the few women proprietresses of a Parisian bar whom her own bar and the races had not ruined. When -the contents of the cash- register had been counted, and the brass chips of the waiters tallied, with it to a sou, Ed would bang up his white duck coat in the closet between the mermaids, chuck the faded carnation among the squeezed lemons, get into his neatly brushed black sack coat, put on his derby hat, lift it once in passing to Madame Martinet, and walk out into the might air, of which he gratefully took a long, deep breath. Often I would wait for him, and we would stroll up to Montmartre together, to part at the Place Pigalle, for he lived beyond my studio. Where? Well, I never asked him. All I knew was that he was married, and was the father of a little girl whom he adored.

The day Ace of Hearts won the Prix de Longchamps, the supper room downstairs was in a bedlam. Upstairs they were two deep at the bar. Ace of Hearts won by a miracle. She was not even rated as a "possible," yet the Paris Mutuel paid out to those who had taken a chance on her five hundred and eighty-six francs for ten! Among others, she had enriched Yvette De Bries, who had put a hundred francs on her. She bad in the space of four seconds lifted Jacques Tontain, whose debts weTe common talk in the Sans Souci, to a realm of opulence that made Ed smile. He was reeling in riches, all due to this trump of a filly who woke up on the home stretch, and aa if by some sudden inspiration shot ahead of the rest, and got there. To-nighfc as I entered the Sans Souci at a little before ten. the jockey who had ridden her stood at the extreme end of the bar. sipping an Apollinaris, surrounded by admiring parasites. Ed was working at top speed. He shot me a slow smile over two brandy fizzes he was straining, and the instant his hand was free shoved me a bottle of Scotch, labelled "Dew of Kilbrathe."

"Any good?" I questioned, not knowing the brand. "Good as any of 'em," smiled Ed slowly. "They're all bad."

As I emptied the contents of a cold soda, Ed, with a brisk lifting of the. eyebrows, and a slight jerk of his head to the left, drew my attention to the extreme end of the room. "What's up?" I asked. He elevated his left eyebrow, turned his liead, and gazed beyond the bar to the end of the long, narrow room. "See her?" said he. "The little blonde with the blue toque, and her back to you, at the corner table — alone."

"Know her," I inquired, amused at his interest. Ed shook hk head. "Wish I did," he added, half inaudibly.

He raised his P3"es squarely to mine as lie mechanically wiped the cocktail on the captive towel, and there was a look of gravity in them wholly uiuiew to me. "Shame!" he muttered. lighting the third burner under the coffee heater. "This ain't no place for her. Sha camp in half an hour ago." "Alone?" Ed nodded in the affirmative as he rammed the neck of a bottle of vermuth into'the cork extractor and j-orked the lever. Even from the distance which separafed us. I could se« she was not French. "English?" I ventured. "There s a new lot of dancers at the Moulin Rouge this week." _ . "American." declared Ed. as lie dropped an olive into a drv Martini. "Sure she's American! She's no show girl either. Shame!" he reiterated gloomily. "Deux stouts," bawled a de care. "F.t Puis nn sherry coblairo." "Bon-" muttered Ed, and wrenched open the door of the ice-chest. My curiosity was aroused. I left lnm. and. edging my way past the crowd at the bar. sat down at the vacant table hack of her. and proceeded to study her discreetly from her head to_ her heels. My first glance at her lithe, girlisli figure told me she was little.more than a'child—barely seventeen. My eves rested for a moment on the dainty bnie tof]tie of the best quality, beneath which "lonmed the sheen of her fair blond hair, half hiding two pink shells of ears, and from the vestige T could catch of the contour of her girlish cheek 1 could tee it was as fresh as a rose- I too. that her perfectly plain tailormade of blue serge fitted her to oerfection: and finally my eyes rested upon two trim little hee's. beloncing to two unmistakably mad"-to-order _ low tnri shoese. encn>:ng two charming little feet. . And now I uc'nt sisht nr a small whit« hand, its suede dove lying close beside it —a fair, dimpled hand, which from mv limited a.nzle of vision I could distinctly .see tremble as it lifted a. glass of beer. . Hivinc sipped it. she put it down upon rt s tV-lt d ; se vers", v-rv carefully, as if -he wac whollv'!i>iii=ed to the tion: nor once did she turn her head, thouih she kept every few minutes lift-

ing it to glance at the wall clock hanging in front of her. .tid might be mistaken, for it was more than evident to me she was waiting for some one. Still I did not move. One never know.s in Paris. One thing I was thoroughly convinced of: She did not belong in the Sans Souci, or any place of its kinc. iir existence. There was about this little girl an unmistakable atmosphere of refinement and innocence, incongruous as were her surroundings. I found myself making a mental search for her governess; then my cariosity again got tlio better of me, and I rose and crossed the room to a

vacant table opposite for a match. Here I lighted a fresh cigarette, wheeled squarely around, faced her, and caught my breath. A pair of deep violent eyes were gazing at me in a sort of dumb terror. I saw a rosebud mouth half open in awe, and a girlish face pale slightly, then flush in embarrassment. It was not until I was sure of my own voice that I j moved toward her. I had not taken two strides before her whole attitude became so pitiable that my courage failed, and I again turned to the jnatch safe, sat down with my back to her, and ordered a fresh whisky and soda. It is not often a face escapes my memory; most writers of actualities have this memory for faces well developed. With me it happens to be the most strongly developed sense_ I possess, and in the matter of this child before me there was no possible doubt as to her identity, pitiful as was the fact of her presence—alone—at night in one of the gayest bars in Paris. She came back to me now as clear as a flash. I remembered as clearly, too, the young man who was attentive to her on the return voyage from New York barely a month ago, when the big Dutch ship dropped anchor in the mist off Boulogne. It was she who discovered the lost rope ring under the lifeboat, it having missed ita peg and rolled nearly to the scuppers. I recalled how she had handed it back to me with her girlish smile. "Thank you so much," I remembered I had said.

"Oh, not at all!" she had replied, with a frank little laugh, and rejoined her mother and the youth, who went hatless on the boat deck, being fresh from college. He was of that type whom mothers are apt .to consider "as handsome as a Greek god." At twenty-three he had grown to six feet in height, considered: himself already blase, was conscious of his knowledge of the world and his good looks, possessed a sound appetite, a letter of credit, a false baritone voice, and a heart eager for flirtation. Moreover, he was blonde, and back of the laughter in his blue eyes there lurked jealousy and the Mach'iavelian egoism of yputh. It was all plain to me now. His victim sat behind me. It was tho second day out that he met her; by the evening of the fourth lie had grown serious and was seldom seen in the smoking-room until after she had retired. His was one of those strenuous steamer devotions which only youth can survive. _ They were on deck together even before the bugle sounded for breakfast. They were invariably late for Incheon and dinner; and, the boat-deck being closed to passengers by order of the cruel captain, they were forced to promenade after dinner with the rest below, in the full glare of the electric lights and "the portholes of the cliambres de luxe, at the door of one of which he left her regretfully at eleven and went to the smoking-room, where he proceeded to reserve ahead before the closing hour as much whisky and soda as it was possible for him to consume. • As I sat turning over in my mmd these" undeniable memories, I recalled how in the express from Boulogne to Paris they had reserved a compartment for themselves —the mother, the daughter, the youth, and the Irish maid. I remembered, too, as I passed their compartment —glancing m. Both the mother and the maid were asleep in opposite corners, 'but the boy and the S'ri were talking earnestly, and she looked as if she never, never expected to see him again. I read tlie label posted on their compartment window:

—Ashton. —Reserved. — A moment later I stood by a. halfopen window in the corridor, smoking, and gazing out at the green farms of France slipping by, felt for a fresh cigarette, and found my last crumpled with the passenger list, which I scanned' for possibly the first time since sailiug; close to the "top of the list I read: Mrs Clinton E. Ashton.

| Miss Edna E. Ashton and maid. As for the boy, his name lay somewhere among the sixty odd others designated bv a star to disembark at Boulogne. I recalled, too, running across them again at the customs in the Gare du Nord, when I saw .the grav-haured mother graciously hold out her hand in good-bve to the boy. It was the gentle, dignified good-bye of a woman of culture and refinement. I remember, too, how the daughter, as their trunks were wheeled out to their omnibus, had drawn very close to him, murmured something, looked for an instant up into his eyes, then turned away as he lirtea his hat, and was gone in the crowd. By George! It was damnable! . Just as Ed had said—alone in one of the most mondaine bars in Paris. Driven to it? Never! That was absurd—this child of luxury. A caprice? Possibly —that remained to be fathomed, would he join her? Had she by some unaccountable circumstances gotten into the Sans Souci by mistake ? I felt the blood creep to my ears 'in disgust, in indignation at the capless cad whom I wds now more than certain in some way was at the bottom of the affair.

It was no business of mine, and yet I felt something had to he done. She belonged to my race, and was the daughter of a lady. I felt a sudden desire to rescue her bodily, to force her if possible to disclose the name of her hotel, to put her into a taxi, and deliver her sately into the care of her mother, the maid, some one. There must be somebody responsible for her, I thought. I looked into the mirrored wall before me. one was still there, flushed, and glancing nervously at the clock. Just then i felt a hand laid on my shoulder, turned, and looked up into Ed's calm eyes. j; "The bunch has gone downstairs,

Sal "SH e down," said I. thing to say to you. W hat 11 jou liave "Nothin'." said Ed. witli a weary smile. "When I want a dnnk I don t get it here." And he drew up a char at- my elbow. , "You're dead right, I went on hotlv. "It's a s'mime! It's worse than that. She's nothing but a child—the daughter of a ladv." "That's what I sized xhe kid up to be." interpr.sed Ed, with a glance m the mirror. _ ~ , , , , "I've seen here l«*ore, I declared. "We crossed a month ago in the same steamer together." And I described the boy. "She recognised me, and 1 thouglit she would faint."

Ed leaned nearer. "Has she come here before i "Fir*t time I ever seen her, ' lie returned* doggedly; "and 1 know em al, Here I mentioned her name. If a rescue between us was to be accomplished. it was imperative that ne should know it. . "Any one spoken to her before I came

in s " "I =aw a couole of guys brace her. but she wouldn't talk. Seemed scared, just as you say." . I ventured a. girlish caprice to see Paris as a solution. ■ . .. Ed shook his head with a grim smile. "Not on your life." he added, wj.n conviction. "Looks like a case of elopement to me. It ain't the first tune a kid has gone crazy and met; bim where he told her to. Go over- and talk to her —vou know her. Tell her this am t no place for her. I see, he muttered, noticing my hesitancy. "Yon go," said I. after a moment s consideration —consideration for rfor so far I had been discreet enough not to let her know I hnd_ recognised her, and had noticed the quick_ relief m her eyes when I sat down and laced the mirror. . , "It'll be easier for her, since you belong to the place." . . "Sure I will. Come over and loin us when I tip you the wink." And without another word, be wheeled m his chair, rose, and crossed straight- to the tabie where she was sitting. T snir her flu=h crimson as be bowea "cood even ins." and seated himself in the chair opposite her. Gradually I saw him gain a sort of frightened confidence from her. for as T gazed now in ! the mirror T could see her innocent eves | meet his own under the spell of his [ quiet smile, and her lips move in short, nervous replies to what he was saying

eaying it so low that I backed my chair within strained earshot. Ed's color too, had somewhat heightened. He wjs not used to talking to young ladies of her kind. I saw him lean forward, and as he did so she •straightened in her chair and flushed

again- • ii"l'm tcllin' you this, and I'm a-tellin. it to you straight," I overheard him say. "I didn't —mean that," she faltered. Her young lips closed as if in pain. "You see —oh, please let me explain! I just thought I'd " "I'm right, ain't I?' Ed cor.t gravely. "This ain't no place—you'll be a good deal unhappier if you git to comin' here." "Oh, but I don't intend to!" she answered him, with a little grasp. "Really and truly I don't," . The shrill laughter of women and the twang of the piano came up from below as the door to the stairs sprang ajar. For some moments it blurred their conversation. Ed got "up and closed the door. ■ "Well, now, then," I heard him say as he took his seat, "there must have \ been some reason." : "Why 110. Why do you ask?" ' She spoke rapidly, with forced lightness, her lips tightening nervously. "Come, now, you'll tell me, won't you? Feel kinder responsible for you." "But there isn't any reason—realty there.isn't. Mr Oh, dear, I don't even know your name!" And again the fair little cheek flushed. "Barman," said Ed. "Well, then, Mr Barman —oh, dear me! —I hope you'll understand. I'm going to ask you a great favor. You'll understand, won't you? Oh. please, I [ want to be alone—l must be alone. You'll understand, won't you? Please!" "Sure, I -understand. So you're expecting some one?" "Why, no!" Ed smiled, "You'll go now, won't you?" she pleaded'. "Oh, T>lease!" . She glanced at the clock, and hen lips quivered. "It's ten minutes fast," remarked Ed, without moving. "It's quarter to eleven. We don't close up until three." At this ha. turned, tipped me the wink, and I rose to join them, still conscious of her utter misery at my pres- 1 ence. I.

"I'd like to make you acquainted with my friend here, Mr Brown," said Ed politely, rising. as I bowed. Again our eyes met, she searching my own intently, her breath coming quick, while I drew up a vacant chair, feeling more like a brute than 'a stranger who had her welfare at heart. "Why, why-; " She checked herself. Then, with the frank nature of a child, blurted out: "Why, weren't you on the steamer?"

"Steamer!" I returned, in surprise. "What steamer? I'm afraid/ .you are mistaken," I went on evenly. Again a look of intense relief came into her dear violet eyes, which since ten o'clock had been fighting to keep back the tears. "The last time I steamered was from Halifax to Liverpool, and then straight to Paris. Let me see; that was nearly six years ago. You see," I Laughed. "I am getting to be an old Parisian. Have you been long in Paris?" "Oh, a long, long while!" she replied nervously, with fresh terror in her young heart at our double presence, i "Please!" she pleaded, li-a!f aside, to Ed : ; and again glanced in agony at the clock. "Take that beer away," commanded Ed to a passing waiter. The waiter stopped, nodded in. assent, and felt in the alpaca pocket of his waistcoast preliminary to making change. She gave a little start. "You must tell -me how much—l—owe," she stammered, opening a tiny gold purse with a sapphire clasp. "Notliin'," said Ed ; , with his quiet smile as he stayed the waiter's arm. "You see, Ace of Hearts has won the Prix de Longchamps, and everything is free here to-night." "I'm afraid I don't understand," she said faintly. "Of course you don't," said Ed, with satisfaction; and the clock struck eleven. |

The corners of -her young Jips were trembling. She clasped her small hands in her lap to keep them still. For a moment I feared she would break down. "You see. Ace of Hearts has been mighty kind to a lot of folks to-day, kind of a benefactress, s'ee?" Ed continued cheerfully. "Give 'em all a surprise, just like the good fairy. Yes, yes, regular wholesale generosity. So y Here the toe o>f my boot came sharnly down ut>on his own, while my eyes follower the fienre of a yonng man in a

light- travelling ulster, carrying a yellow valise, as he strode halfway down the bar, stopped, and glanced hurriedly about him.

Ed l looked swiftly up. "Sure?" murmured Ed, rapidly questioning me with'his eyes. "Dead certain," I muttered.

It was the boy. He stood for a brief second searchinj the lenpth of the room, the corner ir which she sat with tis bei"g well hidden from his nervous gaze by a columi and a jog. "And you like Paris?" I ventured forcing her'attention as Ed rose to his feet. . , " "Oh. I think it insfc too cute foi words!" she replied painfully, with an effort t« J-'mile. , jr., The boy had reached the end of the bar. , . ... Ed walked ud to Turn and faced him. and' I again strained my ears. "Miss Ash ton has been waiting for you since half-past nine," lie said coldfv, with a grim smile. . The boy stared at him with his mouth open as I rose to my feet, Ed blocking his way, still out of her sight and hearing from where she sat, hidden in the corner back of the column. . At that insinnt-a little prl in a blue toque and a blue jacket fell sobbing across the table. Little girte' nerves have a certain limit of endurance, J. imagine. ... . ~, "let me pass, I tell you!" cned the boy, in a sadden frenzy, dropping the ralise, his fists clenched. , "Go slow, kid," replied Ed calmly. Two waiters poked their heads aoovestairs shrupcged- "their shoulders. and withdrew. They w.ere used to scenes of jealousy in. tne Sans Souci. "Let me by!" shouted the boy-, livid ? t'ciy," I said to the sobbing little form. "It'll be all right. Well see to that." , "Goin' to elope, was you, and you had the nerve to tell her to wart, foryou here in a dive I" continued M doggedly, still blocking his wa >'> the way was narrow between the bar and the wall. . "Goin' to steal that 'litUe girl from her mother, was you? By Jove. You re a slick guy., you anM goin' to do as I say, concluded Ed

S '°She' had: turned despite my. efforts, caught sight of him, and sprang to her fC{ "Dick! Oh, Dick!" she sobbed hysterically to the adored one. ~v "Sit down," I intervened. xou must do as ire say, Miss Ashton. She looked at me horror as I men - tioned her name, caught her breath, and sank back in her obaar helplessly in a fresh deluge of tears. „ "You see, you must do as we say, 1 she sobbed, her tear-stained face buried in her arms. "Oh if vou want money you can nave it," sneered the boy. "You've got us, I suppose." he growled, as lie now caught sight of me, and recognised me from the steamer. "I don't want your money, M replied calmly. "I want Miss Ashton s address now, do you liear? /Hi at s nr. price Where does she liver . "That's none of your business, grumbled the boy. , He was a whole bend taller than Ed as lie towered above him. He was, however, wholly unconscious ot ii/d s past record in the ring. I saw, too, that, he no longer bbnd with rage. That be was trembling now with nilstrung nerves born of fear. "Address!" snapped Ed. i And it vou ain't a-soin to give it, I II turn you both over to the police. Expensive game —abduction, kid." There ensued a pause, during which neither spoke, the adored one gazing sullenlv at the floor. "Police or address," insisted Ed sharplv. "You'd better git busy." "Elvsee Palace," faltered the adored one. and leaned gloomily against the bar. . "Is that straight, Miss Ashton.-'

asked Ed over his, shoulder, but she did not hear. "Find out if that's straight;—iilysee Palace/' he called to me.

In response to my second demand, her half-audible "yes" convinced me. and I nodded to Ed. "I want to take Miss Ashton home,"

pleaded the boy, glancing nervously at the clock. "You take her home? Not on your life!" muttered Ed. "I'll take her home, all right—me and my friend here will take her home. Home —understand? Now, you git!" Quick as a cat, he drove the adored one ahead of him down the long, doserved narrow room —straight down past the bar until he reached the entrance door, I following him with the valise. Then Ed gripped him by the collar, and out he went into the might, tils? valise after him—scared, vanquished, demoralised.

Ed's explanations to Madame Martinet were successful. She granted him leave to take home a friend of his who was ill. Five minutes later a taxi auto with a very much frightened, penitent little girl within, seated between Mr Barman and a certain "Mr Brown," was speeding toward the Champs Elysees. I felt like one of two detectives bringing ham© a strayed and nearly stolen child.

Fifteen minutes later we discovered that her mother was still at the Opera, and that Maggie, the Irish, maid, waa

in semi-ihysteries. "May the Lord love ye!'' she cried' wringing her hands, while Ed' explained to her calmly the plain facts of the! case —based happily on what we had mutually agreed, to in the taxi—that neither Miss Ashton nor her friend, Miss Edith, were hurt: that it was purely the fault of the other's chauffeur, who swung directly in front of them as they were returning from the musical, and that, to -save them from the annoyace of appearing before the commissaire of pblice as witnesses I. had convinced the policeman that I was happily none other than iier cousin, and that we had first taken her friend, Miss Edith, home, and then Miss Ashton. * All of which Maggie swallowed with gratefulness. ; . The empire clock on the mantelpiece, in -the centre of a score of family photographs in silver frames, tinkled twelve. , I nudged Ed; .: fearing Mrs Ashton s return. . Tlie little girl- wearily stretched out her hand. Ed. grasped it lightly; so did I- . .. ' , "Oh, ,thank you! Thank you, oh, so much!" she said! faintly, with a forced little smile; and' we close# the door of the salon gently behind us. We descended in the elevator. At tlie ground floor we drew aside audi lifted our hats to admit a lady in ai gray opera cloak that matched- her hair, over wliieh glittered a plain fillet of diamonds. . It was not until we had gained the street -that I made the mother's identity known to Ed. He elevated his eyebrows. "Close shave!"- he murmured, with that calm smile, of his, as we hailed a taxi. Three Sundays ago I went to Auteuil. It was a brilliant meeting. In the second race Ace of Hearth, rated as a fa/vorite, went down at the water jump. Next tome at the ten-franc window was the barrier separating the thousandfranc window. At .this "guichet" stood a tall young fellow in a faded yellow mackintosh the worse for wear, and I saw him pass in to the receiving official back of the wire screen four one-thousand-franc notes, which ho placedl on Longstretch to win. It was the adored one. He seemed pale, nervous, and haggard as the official stamped .his four tickets, and so strenuously engrossed' over his ridiculous "plunge" that he did not recognise, me. The gong sounded. The great sea of humanity filling the tribunes . and the vast pelouse held their breath on tiptoe while the satin-skinned horses swept around. "Haras! Haras!" shrilled thousands. "Belle Marquisel Belle Marquise!" roared up ■ from- -' a thousand otherthroats.

Women grew frantic and faint; men chuckled or cursed. _ Longstretch was third. He leaped to second". P. Jones, astride of him, in lavender and green, was using his whii>. "Longstretch! Longstretch! Longstretch!" welled un from the sea of humanity in a delirious roar. Bah! The devil! Down, he went, rolling, kicking with a broken leg; and from beneath liim crawled P. Jones, limping, in lavender and green. I strolled to the buffet. _ . The adored one was lea.mng with his elbows on the bar, and his boyish face was as white as chalk. It was after six when I left the race track at Auteuil this rare June evening. After watching the horses being gut into the vans, I started to walk ome through the- Bois. The sun was still an hour high, and in the approaching twilight the air was soft and cool and fragrant with the scent of the acacia trees in bloom. I had gamed a shaded alley, and turned down toward Armenonville, when I saw a crowd gathered ahead of me at the corner where the highway from the Porte Dauphins crosses the Avenue des I joined the silent group, and craned my neck over the shoulder of an agent of police. On the dew-drenched grass lay a form in a worn yellow mackintosh. The face was turned to the right. The right hand and arm lay ' outstretched. Half a foot away from the outstretched 'hand I caught sight of a steel-blue revolver glinting m the lush grass, and from behind l the right ear trickled and- dripped, a thin streak or blood that made the blade of grass beneath it nod. .it. I caught my breath. It was the boy. He was dead. ; , , ~ „ By seven I had reached the bans Souci, Ed greeting me with that usual slow smile of /his. I leaned across the bar, grasped bis hand, and hurriedly confided the facts in his ear. "Plungm'?" he murmured gravely. "I saw him put four thousand oil Longstretch," I declared. For a moment Ed- was silent, xlis left eyebrow lifted in thought . "There ain't no man hvm' that km beat that game," said he, gazing wistfully at the sink. "Good- thing she didn't marry ham." And he. wiped his hands on the captive towel.