THE WHITE LIGHT OF PUBLICITY

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLI, Issue 25, 16 December 1908, Page 56

THE WHITE LIGHT OF PUBLICITY

MAURY ENTERTAINS AN ANGEL UNAWARES

By

Charles Belmont Davis

aS THE elevator slowly descended ■from the floor of her apartment, Manry said to himself, over and over again, “ But women do not commit suicide! ” On his way to the front door, through the gilt and marble hall, the young man stopped for a brief moment before a high mirror, and to the white face in the glass he said: "But women do not commit suicide! ” He repeated the same 'phrase many times on his way downtown in the hansom, and while he was dressing for dinner, and very often at dinner, and again at a foolish play, where he sat between two young girls who hardly knew what the ,word ‘•suicide” meant. And later, at supper, where he sat between the same two girls, although he talked of many things, the machinery of his brain kept On grinding out the same words over and over again.,The only thing he could compare it to was a great printing press he liad once seen throwing out copies of a morning paper, until the endless monotony and terrible regularity of the click of the machinery made him want to cry out for something to break and stop it. Maury, in his short day, had known many women, of many kinds, and since he had left college he had seldom been free from some sort of affair. Sometimes the girl had thrown him over, and sometimes he had tired of the girl and by gradual neglect had cleared the field for now conquests or defeats. But his experience had shown him that “women do not commit suicide.” It was this tradition ithat finally lulled him to sleep that night, and the same thought was in his mind when ids servant woke him the following morning. “ Women do not commit suicide,” he assured himself as ho hurried into the sit-ting-room and picked up the morning paper. But there it was, staring at him in great, black type, from the left hand column of the first page: BEAUTIFUL GIRL ATTEMPTS st II IDE Her Love Repulsed by a Well-Known Society Man, Louise Lonsdale, the Actress, Tries to Take Her Own Life by Drinking Laudanum. Maury sank into a deep chair at the •ide of his desk, and read enough of the •tory to know that the girl was still alive, and) that his name was not mentioned and that the man in the case could in BO way be held legally responsible. Then he turned ovei- the pages of his newspaper to the railroad! advertisements and found that the next train for Pleasant Bay left in an hour. In half that time he was on his way to the Twentythi rd-street Ferry, with a trunk packed for a week's stay in the country. For the first time in his life he had refused to tell hLs servant where he was going, and his only instructions were to hold his letters and to pay no heed whatever to the ring of either the telephone or the 'doorbell. The fugitive found a vacant eeat in the forward part of the hot, stuffy smokingcar, where the other passengers could see Only his broad shoulders and the back of his head). By the lime the train had left the main line and had begun to jolt its way along the single-track branch road, Maury had regained a fair part of Ills normal composure, and having lighted A cigar, he opened the roll of papers ha <iad bought at the railway station, and slowly began to read the different accounts of the attempted suicide. Aa ho finished

the particular article he sought in each newspaper he stopped for a few moments to look out at the hurrying landscape. It was late in February, and the ground was covered with great stretches of unbroken snow, and the twigs and branches of every tree were sheathed in ice, and shone and sparkled in the morning sunlight like countless strings of wonderful diamonds. It had been six months now since he had travelled over the same road, but then the stretches of snow were green meadows and studded with wild flowers, and tlie trees were heavy with summer foliage. The occasional farmhouses, with their white clapboard walls and green shutters, surrounded then by blooming gardens and tangled hedges, now looked as cold and bleak as the snowfields that surrounded then: and shut them out from the rest of the world. With a groan and many squeaks from its joints, rusty from too long service, the train swung around the curve that brought it parallel to the ocean and the unending rows of semi-detached villas of the summer watering resorts. There were very few passengers left now, but, with much panting and grunting, the train continued to stop at every little station, deserted save for the stationmaster, who ran out to make sure that there were no passengers, to wave a greeting to the trainhands and then hurry back to his stuffy office. It was well past noon when Maury, who was now quite alone in the smokingear, caught the first glimpse of the frozen waters of the little river that emptied itself into Pleasant Bay, which, in its turn, flows on to the sea. A few minutes more and the train drew up before the station platform and the young man jumped out to receive a boisterous welcame from the stationmaster. This over, he turned toward a very old and rickety carriage. It was the only one in sight, and, as a matter of fact, was entirely in keeping with the station itself and the general desolation of the surroundings. As he crossed the platform he noticed, for the first time, that the train had carried another passenger for Pleasant Bay. She was a young woman, simply dressed in a heavy serge suit, with a boa and toque made of grey squirrel. In one hand she carried a muff of the same fur and in the other a suitcase of apparently considerable weight. Approaahing from different points of the platform, Maury and the girl met at the side of the solitary vehicle. The young man bowed and opened the door of the cartage. “I'm afraid I’m robbing you." The girl spoke in a very low and sweet and unmistakaldy Southern voice. “Not at all,” Maury said. “Please get in. I’m sure I can find another carriage; besides, I’m only going to the Riverside Inn. It’s a very short walk, and ” “Why, that’s where I’m going,” the girl interrupted. “Please get in, and we can drive over together." Maury took the vacant seat at the girl’s side and the carriage slowly started on Its way to the Inn. For some moments the silence ws broken only by the crunching of the wheels over the beaten snow and then he turned to his companion. “Are yon quite warm enough?” ho asked, with a certain courtesy in his manner which Maury had for oil women. “There la another blanket in front.”

The girl looked up at him and smiled pleasantly. For the first time'ho noticed

the big, blue eyes—eyes tliat seemed to carry a peculiar look of trustfulness ia them. “Oh, I’m all right, thank you,” she said. “You say it's not far to the Inn?” “No, not more than a mile. You are a stranger here?” “Yes, it’s my first visit,” she said; “but, judging by the reception the sta-tion-agent gave you, you seem to be anything but a newcomer." “Oh, I’ve been coming here during the summer for years. My people had a cottage on the river for a long time, and it’s quite a second home to me. I knew the place when there were not half a dozen houses between the river and the ocean. You see it’s quite a village now. In summer it’s really very attractive —sailing and golf and bathing. This winter-resort idea is entirely new. I haven’t even seen the Inn since it has been finished." It seemed to Maury that every minute added a fresh beauty to the girl. The sharp wind had given a high colour to the clear complexion and blew little wisps of bronze-gold hair across her face, which she brushed away with her muff. “IVe’re almost there now,” he said, as the carriage turned from the main road into a narrow one that led through a thick pine woods. The girl smiled her pleasure and nodded the flying wisps of hair and the fur toque in his direction. A moment later they could catch glimpses of the frozen river through the dark pines, and then a sudden bend in the road brought them in sight of the Inn itself. It was a low building—half hotel, half boarding-house, with broad porches inclosed by glass. Inside, several women and one very ill-looking man sat about in wicker rocking-chairs before a great log fire. In one coiner there was a safe; also a desk on which were a register and a glass case for cigars. Behind the desk the clerk rubbed his hands and gave them a smiling welcome. The girl took the proffered pen, but, before signing, carefully looked over the names on the open page of the register. “Didn’t Mrs. Osgocd Price and her children arrive this morning?’’ she asked. The clerk shook liis head, and the girl’s almost habitual smile relaxed into a frown. “That’s very extraordinary,” she said; “but surely you got a letter saying that she wanted rooms and that we would all arrive to-day!” Again the clerk shook his head and smiled sympathetically at the grl’s confusion. “Mrs. Price?” he said. “I’m afraid I don’t know her. Where would she have written from?” The girl drew iier lips into a straight line and nervously boat a tatoo with the pen on the desk. “Philadelphia—probably from the Rittenhouse Apartments—• she always spends her winters there. Is there another train from Philadelphia this afternoon?’’ “Oh, yes,” the clerk said. “It gets here at 6:05 —just in time for supper.” The young utiman seemed much relieved and the frown disappeared. “That’s all right, then. She’ll, of course, take that.” She pulled off her gloves, and, In a firm hand signed her name in the register—“Graoe Reeves, New York City." “It’s really terribly annoying, though,” she said, turning to Maury and handing him the pen. “This being stranded in a strange hotel, in a strange Jersey town, is no joke for a girl.” •

“Couldn’t you telephone?” Maury asked. “Of course, that’s it. I can telephone’" —and the girl looked inquiringly at the clerk. “I’m afraid not,” the clerk said, “but I could send a message to the telegraph office for you.” “All rigth,” she said. “I'm sure she’ll come on that afternoon train, but I’d rather be quite certain.” The telegram was written and sent, and then Miss Reeves and Maury went to their rooms and did not see each other again until they met at the luncheontable. They sat next each other, and, while the girl still seemed somewhat annoyed over her predicament, she apparently tried to make the best of it and chatted in a most charming way with Maury and the half-dozen other guests who sat at the same large table. After luncheon Maury proposed that they should go for a walk, and, as a result, they spent the greater part of the after, noon tramping over the frozen roads. They walked to the sea, and for a long time sat on the porch of a deserted casino, watching the waves pounding away their strength on the hard beach* and later Maury showed her through the town and pointed out the places which were of much interest because they had been the playgrounds of his youth. Late in the afternoon they returned to the hotel, but, as it would be quite dark at six o’clock, he volunteered to take her to the station to meet her friends, and she gladly accepted his offer. They drove over in the same carriage they had used in the morning, and when the train pulled in lie left the girl on the platform and, hunting up a news-boy, bought copies of all of the evening papers. One glance at the headlines assured him that Louise Lonsdale was still alive, and so he stuck the roll of papers under his arm and started to rejoin Miss Reeves. He found her standing alone, apparently very dejected and altogether miserable. “They haven’t come," she said, “and it’s the last train.” Then there was a break in the low, gentle voice, and in the darkness Maury thought he detected a tear. “Now, that’s all right, Miss Reeves,” he said, and he resisted a strong temptation to give her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. She did look so young, and so pretty, and so very miserable, standing there in the twilight, deserted by every one except the young man whom she had known for a few short hours. “I tell you it’s all right,” lie repeated with a great show of sympathy. “They'll take good care of you at the hotel until your friends come, and—and, besides —• I’m here.” The girl looked up and smiled grate, fully through her now thoroughly wet eyes. “You’d make such a wonderful chaperon,” she whispered, and took a small handkerchief from her muff, dabbed both eyes and put it back. “Now,” site said, “that the worst has happened, and there is no help for it, I’m going to make the beet of it.” She put her little gloved hand under the sleeve of his heavy tweed coat and started down the platform. “Don’t, take that awful hack back to the hotel," she added. “Why not walk! It’s such a wonderful night!” It was a wonderful night. The wind had gone down with the sun, and th*

Hir was almost balmy now, heavy with the smell of the pine woods and with just enough tang in it to send the blood hurrying through their veins. Here and there a silver star was pushing its way through the purple sky and the ground rolled out before them, a stretch of frosted roads and white, unbroken fields. “Fine!” said he; “let’s walk, by all means.” And, her arm still in his, they half ran, half walked, over the hardpacked paths. Part-way to the hotel they stopped for breath. “And you mustn’t tell them at the hotel, of course," she said; “but between you and me, you are my unofficial chaperon.” “You’re terribly good,” he said. “It’s fine in you to trust me after knowing me for so short a time, but I think we trust people by instinct. You do trust me, don’t you’” For answer the girl nodded the fur toque, and, in the stilless of the night, Maury heard a little catch in her throat. It was some time after dinner when Maury found Miss Reeves alone in one of the little sun-parlours. She was sitting at a table and by the lamplight was reading an evening paper that he had bought on the train. “Do put on your things,” he said, “and let’s go for a walk. I can loan you a heavy coat and we’ll go down and have a look at the ocean. It’s too fine to stay in.” The girl seemed delighted at the idea, and, throwing away the paper, hurried to her room. Half an hour later found them back on the porch of the deserted casino down by the sea. It had been a brisk walk from the hotel, and for a long time they sat in silence, looking out on the long rows of white-crested breakers smashing away on the white, flinty beach. It was the girl who first broke the silence. She was sitting at the edge of the porch, her back against a wooden pillar and her hands clasped about her knees. Maury was smoking at her feet, his legs dangling over the porch’s edge. “Don’t you think,” she said, “that we city folk—l mean real city folk like you and me, who live in a real city where there is so much good, and particularly so much bad—get a great deal more out of the country—a night like this, for instance—than any one else possibly can? New York is such a degraded place —that is, if you believe all you hear.” “ It certainly is,” Maury said.,” And I suppose a good deal of it is true.” “ Now for instance,” the girl went on, “ I came back to the hotel this evening, after walking all afternoon, and my lungs were full of clean air, and I hadn’t one thought beyond the joy of living, and then, after dinner, I picked up an evening paper, and—and!, really, it was a terrible shock.” Maury nodded. “ I know,” he said—• “ I know.” “ Did you read that story, just as an example,” the girl went on, about an actress —I think her name was Lonsdale, or something like that—trying to kill herself because some brute had deserted her? He was probably to blame for all her trouble, and then, when she is at death’s door, he runs away. Think of a girl caring enough for a man to try to kill herself on account of him! As a matter of fact, if his name ever does appear, it will probably turn out that he wasn’t fit to tie her shoestrings.” Maury for some minutes continued to swing his legs and look out at the Biaek sea with its rim of silver breakers. “ That is, of course,” he said at last, “ the logical way, I suppose, to look at it. That is the way you, as a woman, look at it, and! that is the way the newspaperinsists on looking at it. I know Louise Ixmsdale, and I think I know the man in the case, too; and, believe me, 1 cannot quite accept the point of view of the newspapers. You see, they think in the way which will please the greatest number of people—l think to please myself.” “ But, after all,” the girl argued, “ you admit that the man was a friend of yours. Don't you think that the papers are probably less prejudiced in their views than you are ?” Maury nodded his head and twisted the end of his cigar slowly between bls lips. “ For the sake of argument,” he said, •• let’s call the man Brown. Now, Brown’s groat trouble is that he is just a little different from his class. It would be absurd to say that he is a naif, but 1 think he must have been born with an inherent belief that all men and women are good until he has had some sort of proof that they are bad. If Brown is

assured on the best hearsay that Smith is sixty per cent good and forty per cent bad, he will try to squeeze the figures to seventy and thirty. See what I mean?" The girl nodded. “ Yes, I see. I’ve even known some people like that, but not in New York.” " When Brown meets a foreigner at his dub,” Maury continued, “ he doesn't believe that the man is a card-sharper until he knows that he has made altogether too much money playing cards. Brown also doesn’t believe that, because a woman is dirawing a salary as a show-girl on Broadway, she is necessarily not a perfectly respectable and presentable person; and, believe me, Brown is no more easily fooled by the grafters than, for instance, you or I. If they impose on his good nature, or his bank account, he does not choose to regard it as an imposition. He likes to loan money.” “ A very unusual person—your friend Brown,” Miss Reeves interrupted. “Yes, he is rather unusual, and that’s another trouble. For instance, his methods with women are different. If he meets someone who interests him —and it doesn’t matter just what class of society or the stage she belongs to—Brown gets really interested. He doesn’t send his servant around the corner and) tell him to buy the lady some orchids, or violets, according to the season. Bless you, no —not Brown. He goes down to a bookshop and fools around until he finds some rare old book that he likes, and he thinks the girl ought to like. Of course, she really doesn’t like the book, but she knows she ought to like it, and that Brown gives her credit for intelligence, which is something no one ever did before, and that makes her like Brown. It would never occur to Brown to go to a candy store and! send a girl a huge box of chocolates. Brown goes to a leather shop and has something made especially to suit what he thinks the taste of the lady ought to be, or he goes to a silversmith’s, and he and the jeweller will spend a day on working up a particular dtesign. Now, you know, all that pleases a girl a good deal, and then Brown’s belief in human nature is so perfect that he writes his feelings very freely and very frequently —and Brown really writes a pretty good letter.” Miss Reeves smiled. “ Your friend Brown has quite a way with the ladies, it seems. His methods sound wonderful to me, but you have told me nothing as yet that would drive Miss Lonsdale—if that’s her name—to suicide." “Brown would never drive anyone to suieide, unless it was Louise Lonsdale. Brown had heard all about the lady for a long time. He had seen her beautiful, hard face on the stage, and he had heard very hard stories about her off the stage, but he contended that no one bo beautiful could possibly be so hard. Pulchritude counts for a good deal with Brown.” “Well?” said the girl. “Well, Blown started out, full of youthful enthusiasm, to find a diamond in a coal-hole. He treated Louise Lonsdale as if she had been a duchess and a lady, and, I suppose, she couldn’t stand the shock.” “Had he always treated her as a duchess and a lady?” Miss Reeves asked. “He certainly had, up to the very moment of her attempted suicide. But, when a lady asks a man to come in for a moment to have a cup of tea, on a bright, sunshiny afternoon, and then, out

of the perfectly blue sky, suggests that, if he doesn’t marry her, she intends destroying herself, 1 think it is time for him to take the elevator and the first cab in sight and to go in whichever direction the horse’s head happens to bo pointing. At least, that’s what I did.” “Oh, you’re Brown, then?” the girl aaid. “1 wondered.” “Yes, I’m Brown.” “Why did you tell me?” “Well, in the first place, I didn’t intend to, and in the second place, I know you will not say anything about it. I had a good look at your eyes this morning when it was light, and you can't make me believe that a girl with eyes like those could tell anything she was asked not to.” “Now you are talking like Brown. Why did you run away?” “Cowardice —rank cowardice.” “Could they have arrested you?” “Why, certainly not. I was afraid of the yellow journals. I have a mother and a few sisters who live a long way from here—bless them. Do you suppose I wanted them to read about me mixed up in that sort of mess?” “Why did you come here?” “Oh, I don’t know, except that it was quiet and that I would be near people who knew me when I wa-s a kid and before I knew that there -was a Louise Lonsdale on earth. It seems to me a perfectly natural thing for a man to do. If my mother had been nearer I suppose I should have gone to her. There are some times when every man wants to get hack to his mother or to the place where he knew people -when he was a kid.” The girl undid her fingers about her knees and interlaced them behind the fur toque. “You’re a queer boy," she said. “Really, knowing you makes the Lonsdale story more simple. And yet it seems curious that any girl with a record for a stormy life should try to do away with herself on account of a man who had treated her but civilly. She must have had a very emotional nature, even for an actress.” “Yes,” Maury said, ll4 lt would eeem so. But, to be quite fair to the girl, you must remember that my friend Brown is a little emotional himself, especially in the face of so much beauty, because the beauty of Miss Lonsdale is superlative and she is not without a certain feline charm. It is possible, too —and in this I may be doing the lady a great injustice—that Miss Lonsdale may not have stood so securely on the lofty pedestal to which I had raised her.” “You mean?” Miss Reeves TntsTrupted. “I mean that the distinguished viewpoint from which it was my pleasure to regard her was not understood, or perhaps appreciated, by the lady. Is it not possible that I was to her like other men, j-ust rungs on the ladder that reached up to her goal, whatever that goal happens to be? You see that naif streak in me is pretty evident occasionally. This would not be the first time that an unscrupulous womans ” “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’’ the girl interrupted him. “She isn’t as bad as that.” Maury’s eyes had been turned toward the sea, but now he looked up with much curiosity at his companion. “Yotl speak with a good deal of enthusiasm, Miss Reeves,” he said. “It

isn’t possible you, too, know Miss Lonsdale ?” Miss Reeves, her hands still clasped behind the fur toque, continued to look up at the purple sky. “Yes, I know her." The girl no longer wore the habitual smile, aud it seemed to Maury that her face had lust the sweetness and iimocance he had liked so much. “There’s ao reason I should deny it now,” sho aaid; “I’ve got what I wanted. Besides, you’va been very confidential with me; it’a only right we should both tell our real names, as it were." Maury took a few pulls at his halflit cigar and then threw it far away from him across the frozen snow. “Well,'’ he said, “what is your real name, and wdiat was it you did want?” “My name doesn’t matter so mueh. I’m a reporter—l wanted your side of the case.” Maury began to swing his legs again over the edge of the porch aud looked up at the girl as if she were some inanimate thing he had heard about, but never seen before. “Oh, 1 see,” he said. “Then this friendly, almost personal, talk we’vo just had was by way of being an interview ?” The girl nodded, and Maury chuckled aloud. “My friend Brown certainly is guileless,” he said. ’“Would you call that a good interview?” The girl dropped her hands to her lap and looked directly at him. “Pretty good—fairly good stull’. Tire surroundings and all the conditions make it rather interesting.” She glanced slowly about her. “You understand —wellknown society man, a fugitive, tells his story in a lonely casino at a deserted Jersey summer resort. The main thing is that I found you and that you talked at all. It’s what W’e call a ‘beat.’” “I see,” said Maury, and he got up and stamped his feet. “It's pretty cold —no? Dont you think wc had better be walking back?” He put out bis hand and helped the girl to rise. They left the casino and started up the narrow, deserted road that led to the town. “Do you want to go up to the telegraph station now to send your article?” Maury asked. “Or is it too late?” “There’s no hurry,” she said, “as long as no one else has the story. I’m going to town to-morrow morning early. I’d rather have them run it Sunday, anyhow.” For some moments, except for the crunching of the packed snow under their feet, there was silence. It was the girl who spoke first. “I don't suppose you think much of my sort of work?” she asked. “Oh, I don't know,” Maury said. “Before this 1 have always looked at yellow journalism as a sort of general proposition. This is the first time I have ever had a chance to regard it from a purely personal point of view. It’s something like murder —the word ‘murder’ really doesn’t mean much until you see the blood of one of your friends, does it?” Again there was silence between them, and then Maury spoke out with genuine enthusiasm, and as if ho had entirely forgotten his own troubles. “You know, Miss Reeves, 1 think your profession, properly played, is the greatest thing on earth. Just think of It, the news of the whole world thrown on you®

doorstep every morning, and for one penny —and then the power of an editorial! Why, in one short paragraph an editor can get at more people and do more good than an ordinary man can accomplish in a whole lifetime! Just remember what some of those old-time fellows did —the Greeleys and the Curtises!”

“Then you don’t believe in modern journalism—that everything that can't stand the white light of publicity should bo shown up?” “I don’t really know much about it,” Maury said; “and what I do know I learned from a great friend of mine, who was a newspaper man, although, perhaps, you who know will say that ho was not a typical one. lie was a star reporter, and hence was practically mixed up every day with the big, vital thing of the hour, but it seemed to me that he got his relative values mixed. You see, when the rest of the world was asleep lie was at work, and vice versa; so, when lie wasn't actually at work, there was no one to play with, and he sat about a stuffy office, talking with other newspaper men about Jones’ story or Brown's ‘scoop’; not the humanity of the real thing itself, and never giving one thought to the ultimate effect of the story on the thousands of people who read it. His whole vision became focused on the news page of one morning paper, and what the rest of the world did concerned him only so far ns it fed that one page. A kind word from the city editor loomed as big to him as a decoration, and his only ambition was to work for his bread and butter and the glory of the man whoso name appeared at the head of the editorial page. His one thought was how to defeat the libel law, and he would Convict a man. as far as public opinion went, in twenty-four hours that the Courts couldn't indict in twelve months. ‘And, in time, he got to believe, just as you have learned to believe, that, without regard to circumstances, any act that cannot stand the white light of publicity should be exposed in the •Press.” , “ That is what I believe,” the girl said. “ That is what your work has taught you to believe,” Maury answered. “1 'hardly think you believed it always.” They could see the. lights of the inn now, and neither of them spoke again until they had reached the porch. Then, as they both stopped, Maury held out his hand. “Good night, Miss Reeves,” he said. “ I'm afraid I won’t see you again if you are leaving on the early train.” The girl slowly clasped her hands behind her back. “ No,” she said, and the defiant air of •bravado she had worn during the walk •home seemed, to have left her. “I couldn’t very well shake hands with you. Rut you mustn’t think I’m sorry—you don’t understand, that’s all. You consider only the individual —I work for a principle.” Then she turned and ran up the steps and left him alone. Maury sat down on the lower step and lighted a cigar, but almost before he had thrown away the match the door of the hotel was thrown open and he saw the figure of the girl silhouetted against the yellow light from the office. Carrying her suit case in one hand, she crossed the porch and slowly came down the steps to where he sat, and then, dropping the valise, stood looking out at the frozen river glistening through the black, naked pines. For a moment Maury hesitated—it seemed almost as if he were talking to a woman walking in her sleep. “ Well,” he said, “ what is it? Please tell me—please.” He got up and moved nearer to her. The girl tried to answer him, but the words died in her throat. “ They’ve put me out," she whispered at last. ‘They’ve put me out of the hotel. 1 m only a young girl, and they’ve thrown me out in the middle of the night. Don’t you understand?—they’ve thrown me out! ’’ “Thrown you out! ” Maury repeated. “Why, what do you mean? Thrown VO# out —what for? ” “ It was that telegram—the one I sent to Philadelphia. They returned it with a notice that the woman 1 sent it to wasn’t known. That made them suspicious here in the hotel, and that blackguard in there rays I came with you. He says they can't have people like me in a respectable hotel. Think of that—people like me! ”

“Oh, I’ll fix that all right,” Maury Baid, and started for the door, but Hie girl threw out her arm and bold him.

“Don’t!” she cried. "Don’t make it any worse! I can’t go back there! ” Maury stood still a few moments and twisted his heel in the frozen snow. “ As a matter of fact, Miss Reeves,” he said, “ appearances are against you.” “My name is not Reeves! ” the girl cried. “My name is Harriet Morton, and my name is all I’ve got in the world. Do you know what it means for a young girl to be thrown out of an hotel? It’s the sort of thing that sticks to her till her dying day. It’s ruin—that’s what it means—ruin! I’ve got a mother who’s the finest woman in the world, and all she lives for is her children, and everything she has left now is pride—just pride in us and the name. When she hears this it will kill her!

“ Well, that’s all right,” Maury said. “ The people in there don't know your name —they think it's Reeves. I'm the only person that knows, and 1 won't tell. Come along with me.” He picked up the valise, and the girl, although bent with the ignominy of it all, followed him down the road l that led to the village. “Where are you taking me?” she asked. “Well, I’ll tell you,” he said quite cheerfully. “The hotels and boarding-houses are closed, and I'm going to the house of an old native I and my people have known for years. He is the village undertaker and tne sexton of the Baptist church, which makes him thoroughly respectable on two counts. 1 think I’ll tell him and his wife you drove over from Lakewood to join some friends at the hotel; the friends didn’t get here, and, as you don’t want to stay alone at the hotel, I had brought you to stay with them —you, of course, being an old friend of mine. Good idea —no?” The girl nodded and they walked on in silence until they were near the home of the young man’s friends. “That’s it,” he said; “there’s the refuge—a good place to rest and think it over.” Maury reached the station early the next morning and found Miss Morton busy over a telegram. She smiled at him as he entered, and when she had finished writing came to where he was waiting for her and showed him the message. “You’re sure you want me to read it?” The girl nodded. “You more than any one else.” This is what Maury read: David Grierson, City Editor of the “Despatch,” New York. Maury got away late last night. Probably on way to Philadelphia, or may have driven inland toward Trenton. Please accept this as mv resignation. ' H. MORTON. “Thank you,” said Maury. “I like the last part especially.” The girl took the telegram back to the window and then returned to him. “There are ten minutes before the train starts, Mr. Maury,” she said; “won’t you come outside ?—I want to tell you something.” They walked up the platform and sat down on an empty truck. “Do you know Billy Hardie?” the girl began. Maury shook his head. “Well, he’s been one of our star men for years. He has a great friend named Walter Birch, who used to be with the ‘Despatch,” but he is now press agent at the Casino. Last Sunday, Hardie and Birch had dinner up at Louise Lonsdale’s flat. It seems that business at the Casino had been bad and the show had to go on the road. They wanted to cut down expenses and were going to put Lonsdale in the soubrette part, but the trouble was, no one knew her outside of New York. So they talked it over and ” "And decided to have her commit suicide,” Maury interrupted. Mis Morton nodded. “And she said you would be the best victim,” she went on. “Hardie was to do the New York end and I was to follow you and get an exclusive interview. That was easy, because we didn’t let anyone know who the man in the Case was supposed to be. We rather thought you’d got out, so I waited outside your rooms for you. in a hansom, and followed you to the ferry.” “Very simple,” said Maury, “when you know the inside story, isn't it? But I thought they arrested people who tried to commit suicide?”

“Oh, that was easy. She had her own doctor and be never said positively that it wasn’t a case of taking an overdose by mistake, and then, besides, Hardie i» pretty strong with the police.”

‘•'Wonderful! But what are you goigg to do now?” “I? There’s nothing for me to do. The story is no good without my finding you and getting an exclusive interview. It will just fade away, I suppose.” “But you can’t fade away," Maury protested. The girl rose and walked a few steps up the platform and then returned. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said; “New York is a big place—there ought to be plenty of work. I think the train will be starting soon.” The girl held out her hand. “Will you shake hands with me now, Mr. Maury?” The young man got up and took her band in both of his. “Rather,” he said. “I’m mighty glad to have known you." They started for the train together and Maury helped her up the car platform. “I’ll be back in town in a week,” he said—“that is, if this thing blows over. I wish you would call me up any afternoon—my name is in the telephone-book. I’d like to help you look for that job, you know—something quiet and not so much in the white light of publicity.