nS
———
Bain
Balieonte, Pa., August 1, 1913.
@e
WOMAN
A Novel by
Albert Payson Terhune
Founded on
William C. de Mille’s Play
Copyright 1M2. The Bo“bs-Merrt!! Co apecial
arrangement with the DeMille abi Lu.
SYNOPSIS.
CHAPTER 1 — Congressman Standish
and the Woman, believing themselves in
ove, spend a trial week as man and wife
n a hotel in northern New York under
assumed names. e Woman a ens to
the fact that she does not love Standish
and calls their snfagement off. Standish
protests undying devotion.
CHAPTER I1-Wanda Kelly. telephone
rl at the Hotel Keswick, W n, is
ed by Tom Blake, son of oi Solitical
boss of the house. He proposes marriage
and is refused.
CHAPTER I11-8he gives as one of the
reasons her determination to = revenge
on Jim Blake for peti yer ge ather, Con-
Fran! phglessman
Standish, turned SRBUREIT is fighting the
Mullins bill, a measure In the inte
of the railroads. The machine is seeking
means to discredit Standish in the hope
of pushing the bill threugh.
CHAPTER IV-Robertson, son-in-law of
Jim Blake and the latter's candidate for
aker of the house, tries to win Stan-
dish over, and failing, threatens to dig
into his past.
| Jontii ued from last week |}
“Oh, not so many,” gently contra.
dicted Blake. “Two jails would te
plenty large to hold all the folks who
have broken any law. And the two
fails could be built real easy—just by
running a high wall around the equa-
tor. But you're right in one thing,
Wan Dyke. We'll never get Standish
in the way these boys have been go
ing about it. So, it's lucky I happened
to put a man of my own on the job.”
“Yes. While I've been ‘lying down,’
as you call it.”
“I didn't say you had been—"
“No. But you thought it. Just be
cause I don't run around in circles,
barking, and now and then biting a
‘plece out of the ceiling, you folks think
Tm doing nothing. And I'll never
teach you any better.”
. “But—"
“Oh, yes. | put a man of my own
on to Standish's record. I told him
not to bother about anything that had
happened during the last three or four
years. Your men would be busy on
that; and there'd be nothing to find,
anyhow. I set my man to scratching
up ancient history. I told him to go
back and back and back, in Standish's
record; and to keep on going back till
he found something.”
“Well?” chorused the others as
Blake paused and searched his clothes
with maddening slowness for a match.
“Well,” drawled Blake, “he’s found
it”
“No?
elated.
“The story is long,” said Blake; “but
1 can shorten it up considerably for
you. Along about five years ago friend
Standish fell in love with a girl. Right
sort of a girl, you know. Good family.
Father rich and all that. Standish
wasn't very well off—he was always
chuckled Neligan, wildly
“Oh, Yes, | Put a Man of My Own on
to Standish's Record.”
honest, you know. And he and she
were going to get married on the quiet
and keep their marriage secret. But
she had to go to Europe. And for
some reason or other—the secretary
didn’t know why and it doesn't matter,
anyhow—the wedding was sidetracked,
Instead, they took a notion to run off
to a little country hotel, for one of
those honeymoons that—that never
came through the custom-house.”
“No!”
“Yes. And, as an afterthought, yes,
again. I can show you the hotel reg-
‘ster with—"
“The fool didn't register under his
own name, did he?” demanded Gregg.
“No,” sald Blake. “Registered un-
der the name of Fowler. But any hand-
writing expert can prove he wrote It,
and the hotel manager can swear
Standish was the man. The manager
is ready to swear Standish called the
woman his wife ~~”
- ing-room.
“Oh, the oe grinned Gregg, the
worldling.
“You see,” went on Blake, “he real
ly expected to marry her. They were
just taking time by the forelock. And
then—here’s the queerest tangle of all
—after that week there, it seems she
backed out and wouldn't marry him at
all. No, Gregg, it wasn't he that threw
her over. This was the other way
around. The Woman jilted him and
went back to her family. One week of
Standish was about all she was up to.
And she balked at making a life job
of it. I don't wonder.”
“But didn’t her family find out?”
“It seems not, They thought she had
been away visiting a girl friend in the
country. She got home safe, and
everything looked proper as a rainy
Sunday in a grave yard. Some wom-
en sure have luck.”
“Go on,” urged Van Dyke.
“That's about all,” finished Blake.
“She woke up, as I told you, to find
it was all-a-mistake-and-no-harm-done-
thank-heaven. And as far as I can
make out, they haven't seen each oth-
er since. I won't swear to that part
of it. But if they have, his secretary
doesn't know it. Nor—"
“Who was the Woman?” queried
Robertson,
“That,” answered Blake reluctantly,
“is the one thing left to find out.”
Van Dyke fairly groaned.
“Then,” he demanded, “how is this
miserable story going to help us?”
“Oh,” replied Blake, “the net's clos-
ing around her. I hope to have her
name tonight.”
“Tonight! We've got to have it to-
night. Before the Mullins bill comes
up. The name's no use to us after
that.”
“But,” asked Robertson, “even if we
do get it tonight, what use can we
make of it? The house will be on the
final debate of the bill by ten o'clock.
By making use of every trick we
know we can fix only a few hours’ de-
lay at most. What good—"
“What good?” retorted Blake. “Just
this: Standish’'s long suit is morality.
A lot of us have had smirches on our
names from time to time. He never
has. So the clergy are for him and
the people swear by him. It's his
chief pull with both church and pub-
lic. Now—if we can get this story,
properly authenticated, on the floor of
the house tonight, it'll give a lot of
men—Gregg, here, for instance—an ex-
cuse to swing over to us.”
“Oh, we've got him! We've got
him!” muttered Robertson once more,
his usually quick mind loafing blissful-
ly over the single grand idea.
“Yes,” amended Van Dyke dryly,
“we've got him—if we can get the
Woman's name in time. It all de-
pends on that. Without it, our story’
fs worthless. Thus far, it seems, av
one knows her name.”
“Except Standish,” corrected Blake.
“What good does that do us? He
won't tell.”
“What one man knows,” returned
Blake sententiously, “another can find
out.”
“And,” put in Gregg, lowering his
voice, “speaking of ‘finding out, re-
minds me. That little devil of a tele
phone girl over there—Do you sup-
pose she could have heard anything
we've been saying?”
“If she has a whole pair of ears,”
answered Blake, sinking his own voice,
“she surely could. Especizlly what I've
been saying. For I've been straining
my voice to talk loud enough for her
to catch what I said, ever since we sat
down here.”
“The deuce you have?” exclaimed
Van Dyke. “What for?”
“For the same reason I've been
‘laying down,’ ” returned Blake. “Don't
worry over that. A man whose voice
is as tired as mine isn't straining that
throat unless it's for a good cause.
And you can leave the finding of the
Woman's name to me, too, I guess.
Now trot along, all of you. Mark, go
in and order dinner. I'll be there in
five minutes. I've a couple of things
to attend to first.”
The group began to drift across the
corridor in the direction of the din-
Blake detached himself
from the rest and started back toward
the telephone switchboard. But Tom,
noting his father's move, intercepted
him. The young fellow's face looked
worried and his manner had lost some
of its wonted buoyancy.
“Dad,” he said.
“Hey?” asked Blake, stopping and
' turning toward his son.
Reading Tom's face, as he was ac-
'customed by instinct to read every
‘guyingly, half-anxiously,
countenance that came into his range
of notice, Jim nodded and led the way:
to the amen corner.
“Now, then,” he demanded, half-
“what's on
your mind? Speak up, son. There
never yet was a delicate subject that
wasn't the better for getting aired.”
CHAPTER VI.
A Family Row.
“This-~this story about Standish”—
began Tom uncomfortably; then
paused involuntarily as Blake leaned
back with a grunt of relief,
“That all?” asked the father. “T
was afraid I was going to get another
calldown from my wise son on my
follies and sins. Honestly, Tom, I
don’t know how I ever got through
the first quarter-century of my life
without your holy guidance and cor
“Is that quite necessary?” said Tom,
“Yes. 1s suppose . it will give us he
fight.”
“Looks that way from where I sit,”
replied Blake. “Such pretty romances
have wrecked many a man as strong
as Standish-—and stronger.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Tom, almost shud-
dering, “I wish you wouldn't use black-
mail to win your fight.”
“Blackmail?” echoed Blake slowly.
Then he paused. The rugged mask
of a face had not changed. But the
pupils of the half-shut eves had sud-
denly contracted as though a blinding
light had been flashed before them.
Yet, a second later, when Blake spoke
again, there was no trace of pain or
resentment in his dry drawling voice.
“Blackmail?” he said once more.
“How about the way Standish dragged
up that franchise affair of mine last
year? What was that but blackmail?”
“Well,” demanded Tom, in the stark
mercilessness of youth, “you were
stealing the franchise, weren't you,
dad?”
“Yes,” asserted Blake with a de
lightful absence of all false modesty,
“I sure was. And I was doing it neat-
ly, too. Not a ripple, not a kick, till
Standish butted in with his measly
reformers and queered the whole job
and cost us a half million dollars.
Son, every time I think of that, I want
to chase some one with an ax. I don't
lie awake nights thinking how cun-
ning our friend Standish would look
with seaweed in his hair and sand un-
der his pails. But I keep that fran-
chise memory and a few others fresh
on the ice. And it sure doesn't break
my heart to have a chance now of
getting back at him.”
“But,” persisted Tom, “that was a
public matter. It doesn’t justify you
in dragging his private life into the
lime-light.”
“The deuce it doesn’t? Who teld
you that?”
“My self-respect.”
“Oh! I thought maybe you might
have got the tip from some reliable
source. Go ahead, son. Doesn't justi.
fy me, hey?”
“No, dad, if you want truth, it
doesn’t. It isn't-—clean!”
“Clean? Say, son, this is politics.
Not a prayer-meeting. You've got in
the wrong pew.”
“If the right pew justifies dirty
work like that,” flashed the boy, “I'm
glad I have. And I want to stay there.
This business of making political cap-
ital of a man’s dead-and-buried sins
is enough to turn the stomach of a
camel. A thousand times more so
when one considers the Woman.”
“Well,” queried Blake, in high good
humor, as he always was when he
could stir up a quarrel between his
adored only son and himself. “What
about her?”
“Everything. She made a fool of
herself. Presumably when she was
young. She has probably repented
it bitterly, ten thousand times. She
may have atoned for what she did.
She may even be a wife and mother,
now. Respected, loved. All the world
and Heaven, besides, to her husband
and children. And, just to pass a rot-
ten railroad bill, you are going to drag
her out into the glare of the newspa-
per world and crucify her! You are
going to strip from her her husband's
love; you are going to make her
friends shun her as an outcast; you're
throwing black shame on her innocent
children’s name. You are—"
“Excuse me, son,” interrupted Blake.
“But I'm not doing a single one of
those terribly dramatic things.
Standish is doing it—or, rather, he
has done it. Not I. Catch the idea?
If Standish committed a murder and
I found the body, would you call me
a murderer? Hey? Well, that's what
has happened this time. When Stand-
ish took the lady on that little left-
handed wedding trip, five years ago
in March, he rendered her liable to all
that and worse. A man doesn't think
of such things at the time. Neither
does a woman, I guess. This one
sure didn't, or she'd never have
thrown over her one hope of safety
by jilting him.”
“Listen, dad,” returned Tom, chok-
ing back a hot answer. “Ever since
vou brought me here into the thick of
the fight, you and I haven't agreed
about politics. But I've stood with
you, through and through. I've work-
ed hard for the party, because I feit
1 was working for you. But—well—
this time I'd rather be working for the
other side. Because I believe they're
right and we are wrong.”
“Well, then,” blazed his father, in a
dry gust of unwonted wrath, “why
don’t you work for the other side? Go
ahead! It's no great loss to us.”
“You know perfectly well why I
don't. It's because you are on this
side—the wrong side just now.”
“Go over to them!” snapped Blake,
his rare anger still unspent. “They'd
be glad enough to get you. Not that
you'd be worth a huot In hell to them
in actual valve. But the fact that
you're the worthy son of your un
worthy blackmailing father would
make you welcome. Go ahead! Lord,
but I wonder what I ever did in the
old days to be punished by having a
canting reformer for a son! Well,
why don't you go over to them?”
“Just as you say,” answered Tom
with a philosophic shrug of the shoul
ders. “Good night.”
“Where are you off to, now?
grunted Blake indifferently, albeit
there was a glint of wistfulness in the
half-shut, steely old eyes.
“To the club. To dinner,” said Tom,
moving away.
“To the club, hey?” growled Blake,
“Huh! Afraid it'll
“You have a positive genius for
choosing the rottenest, most disagree
thing to say,” remarked Tom;
there was & note of hurt in his
that somehow reached the far
hidden anid tortucus recesses whure!
Jim Blake's battered old heart was!
supposed to be. |
“Well,” vouchsafed the father
grumpily, “maybe that was just a trifle
“l Wish You Wouldn't Use Blackmail |
to Win Your Fight.”
swift. Look here, lad,” he went on, a
soft, almost tender tone creeping into
his dry voice, as he laid his hand on |
Tom's shoulder, “I'm the only father !
you've got. And you may as well |
make the best of it.”
Bie the only father I want, aa.
ut—"
“There! There!” hastily admonish: |
ed Blake. “Don't go spoiling it with |
‘buts!’ You know what you are to me, |
boy. I guess I don't need to get mush: |
headed and try to tell you. And—and,” |
he repeated, hiding his momentary |
tenderness under a cloud of made-to- |
order impatience, “that’s why I hate |
to see you loading up your alleged
brain with these fool ideas about—" |
“Let it go at that dad,” laughed |
Tom.
“Oh, all right. I will, if you like. !
And you'll stay to dinner?”
“Why, of course,” quickly assented |
Tom. |
“That's better,” approved Blake. |
“Now, run in and start with Mark. |
I'l be with you in a minute or two. |
And-—say—if Mark and I should get |
to talking politics at dinner—"
“Don’t worry,” returned Tom, iol
ing. ‘Tm getting quite used to my |
muzzle. But Mark won't be as likely |
to be wrapped up in politics as he ns- |
ually is. Grace is coming down.”
“No!" cried Blake, his face alight
‘with pleasure, “Good for her! Whea?”
“At eight o'clock. But she didm't
bother to mention whether it was |
elght this evening or eight to-
morrow morning. Mark was just go-
ing to call her up on long distance to
find out, when we happened to meet
Standish. And I suppose the prospect
of a clash with Standish quite drove
a minor matter like his wife out of his
thoughts.”
“You're wrong there,” dissented
Blake. “There's nothing on earth
can drive Grace out of Mark Robert.
son's head. He's as crazy in love with
her as he was the day he married
her. If he didn't telephone her before
he went in to dinner it's a chinch he'll
do it the minute he comes out. Queer
old Mark. Grace is the one thing that
makes him human. Chase on in, and
order for me.”
Dismissing his son with a slap on the
shoulder, Blake strode across to the
telephone alcove. Wanda Kelly look-
ed up inquiringly from the novel she
was reading between telephone calls.
“Miss Kelly,” said Jim, “will you
kindly connect me with the hotel of-
fice?”
He sprawled into a vacant seat at
her side, caught up the extra receiver
and called:
“That the office? Perry? Hello,
Perry. This is Blake. Jim Blake.
Yes. In two minutes I want you to
send word to Mr. Standish that he's
wanted on the phone here. Yes. Here. |
Not in his room. Here at the phone
booths. Fix it any way you like. Only
get him here inside of five minutes.
No, no! Do as I say, I tell you. Good-
by.”
He hung up the receiver, rose and
stood lounging against the rail, look-
ing down at Wanda from between his
half-closed lids.
“Now, then, Miss Kelly,” he began
ptly
5
Sonny mauteg vy We wind, be went
on:
“You Beard the stoy 1 was telliug
“=I happened to catch part of it.”
"YOU (tinued on page 7, Col. 1.1
i ———
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