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Sr.fe delivery. 1 CO., 8a Wiaam ST.,N*W Y».rk. IN THE SHADOW OF SHAME By Fitzgerald Molloy Copyright by 12. Fitzgerald Molloy. Synopsis of Precedlug Chapters Olive P urn burton, alter the legnl separation from her bitital huabaud, becomes a suce.essfi;! nuthoreMS and lives quietly with bet daughter, Veronica, in Hexti'ii Road, hr. .!olm's Wood, London. Her luh band secretly returns to Londou and by letter makes further demands for money. Her cousin Valerius i albri.ith. a man of Independent wealth who lias been in love with her since earl\ vouth, calls to say furt*well before starthig on a trip to iv'ypt. A fort night later Olive I>llllll i« ton NJoiind ! i libr.irv holdine a «lujrtr« r over the dead bu.jv li»-r husband. She i k arrested nno held lor trial, and detectives are nut on the ease, t.eorge ftostoek. the publisher, and \ a'erhis Galbralth take an aethe interest In the In vestigations, and the former 1h hbadowed by Inspector Mack worth. Angela M'v/.a, an ltuiian woii.an, wears to Mrs. liumburton and inspeefor Macku that t!ie in.uder uas ( oiiunltted by her huHmmi. Tli" Inspector discovers l'lt iio. u model and former companion of Mez/.a. "No. Pictro did not know lie was in London till I told hitn last night." "Tliey were good friends." Lorenzo said nothing, but contented himself by nodding his h"ail by way of assent; and Mackworth, thinking there was no further information to be ob tained from him, hastened away in search of the Summers sticct lodgitv house. CHAPTER XV. On reaching MariK Roselli's house, the number of which had been given him by Lorenzo, the inspector knocked loudly, and then impatiently waited for an answer. None came, nor did any soutid of voice or movements within the dwelling indicate that it was tenanted. lie rapped again with like result and then stepped into the street to view t'.ie dwelling. As he did so, the high, narrow door from which the paint had long since faded, opened, and a woman's figure stood framed in the portai. Mack worth, ear.erly observing her, raw she was tall and thin, her years about sixty, her regular features wear ing a hard expression, the dark c\; eld and speculative, tie fare lined and wrinkled, something masculine in bear ing. "Are you Maria Roselli?" he asked, advancing toward her. "Y"s," she replied, returning the gaze. "Then 1 want to speak to you.'' "You can talk here," she said in ex c< "mt English. "It is something I don't wi-h to say in the street." She hesitated a moment, then drew aside to hi him pass into ihe hall, clo«ed the door, and ushi-r I him into a harelv furnished, room. Marco Mezza in the house?" Maekworth began. "Marco Mezza?" she repeated, with out surprise being noticeable in her voice or face. "No." 'Then where he?'" "I don't know," she replied, frigidly. "Rut he has been here?" "Oh, yes." "When ?" "Some time in September. I don't re member the date." "I want you to tell me all you know abOjit him." "Why?" she asked, Staring hard at Maekworth. "I am a police officer. He may be concerned in a very serious business; you will see why I ask for him.'' Maekworth saw she expressed neither astonishment, interest nor anxiety. His words left her perfectly indifferent to their inference. "I know very little of this Mezza. He came here some weeks ago, as I have said." "He was a friend of yours?" "I had never seen him before. A Nea politan living in Paris gave him my ad dress," she answered. "How long did he stay with you?" "Three days. I would keep him no longer." "Why?" asked the inspector, anx iously. "Well, he was nearly always drunk, and then he was ill; his coughing kept my other lodgers awake at night. My house was no place for him.'' "And so you got rid of him?'' "I told him he should goto the hos pital." "And he went?" "He left here for the hospital, but 1 don't know if he ever went there," she answered, the same calm indifference noticeable in her manner. "What hospital?" "The Italian; he spoke little English." "And afterwards—did he return to you "No; he knew I would not take him.'' i"Have you made no inquiries? for him ?'' "No; why should I?" Maria Roselli asked, in her hard voice. "I have to mind my business if I would live, and I have had trouble enough in my own life without going in search of it among strangers." "Had he any friends to sec him while he was here?" "Not one. He slept all day. because he was awake coughing all night. When he went out in the evening it was to the public house." "Which public house?" "That I don't know." "And he returned alone?" "Always." After this the woman moved toward the door, as if to indicate the inter view must end. She had neither the curiosity nor sympathy to inquire what it was Mezza had done to put the police on his track. Maekworth, seeing she could give no more information, became impatient to reach the Italian hospital, which he knew was situated in Queen's Square. There, no doubt, he would be able to learn where Mezza had gone* on being dis charged, and perhaps to trace directly to bini the mad deed which, no doubt, his illness and want of opportunity had prevented him from committing during the first days of his return to Eng land. Passing through the wide hall of the hospital, which had been the dwelling of people of fashion when Queen Anne reigned, Maekworth was shown into a reception room, and soon the door opened, and the superioress entered and bowed. "Rueno giorno, signor," she said, in a pleasant voice. PICTORIAL MAGAZINE ANI) COMIC SECTION ! "I am English, madam," the inspec tor replied. "And so am I," she said smilingly, "but as you came to make inquiries for a patient I supposed you to be an Italian." "The patient I came to a r k about i not a friend, but a man in whom 1 am interested " "What is bis name?" she asked, in a business-like manner. "Marco Mezza."' "I remember him well." "Pray tell me, madam, everything you know about him." "He came here sufiering from an ad vanced -tagc of pneumonia." "Do you remember the date?" "I can find it for j u. 1 should think he bad 1. i-n i: ;ing for s.r.ne time. At all ev' nt , he had greatly neglected him self and was in a very bad condition." "Ilow long did he remain here?" "lie lived for about twelve days." "Livedthe inspector repeated. "Then he is dead?"' "Yes, he is dead." _ "Rut, tell me, did he leave the hos pital f'>r a day—for an hour—from the time he came in until he died?" 'No; that would have been impossible. The doctor knew from the moment he saw him that Mezza was a dying man." Maekworth'- astonishment and dis appointment were grei't. Ff Mezza was in the hospital on September 21, then it was not li" who had murdered David Dumbarton. "What was the dr.tc of his death?" "J will bring you the book in which all particulars of our patients are en tered." the npcriorr said, and she quickly left the room. "Can it be po -ible Mezza is inno cent?" the inspector asked himself, un willing to roi! out the idea which had taken possession of his mind. In a couple of moments the superior ess_ returned, carrying a heavy book, which she placed upon the table. "Ah, here it i>: Marco Mezza, admit ted the Sth of September; suffering from pneumonia, accelerated by drink; place of birth, ■ : age, .|0; profes sion, vi lini-t; address Rue Petit Mae fre, Paris; date of death, 21st of Sep tember, hour, G p. m." I . .. B: % 1/ / • 4 Date of doulli, *<£ l.st of September." Marco Mezza had died but a few hours before the man whose life he had threatened to take had been killed. "Did be not send for his wife or his friends?" Maekworth asked. "He told us on entering he bad no wife or 110 friends in London; that he had come from Paris four days be fore." "Rut toward the end he did not in quire for them ?" "He did not know he was dying, and during his last three days he was de lirious. We sent the certificate of his death to the Italian Consul, who will forward a copy to Mezza's relatives in Naples, if they can be found. He is buried in Ken-al Green." There seemed nothing further to be known regarding this unhappy man; here was the end for him, so far as this world went. Maekworth thanked the superioress for the trouble she had taken, and left the hospital in a differ ent mood from that he felt on enter ing, all his plans upset, bis spirits de pressed. The man who had killed David Dum barton was still to be discovered. CHAPTER XVI. On a cold and cheerless afternoon in October, with a gray and lowering sky above and a drenched and sombre world around, George Rostock took his way to see Olive Dumbarton. Walking along the broad, soft-ear neted corridor leading to the drawing room, he glanced toward the entrance of the study where the terrible tragedy had taken place; the study with its floor still smeared and stained with blood, its windows closed and shuttered, its fur niture dust-covered, its door locked. Never bail he passed it since that night which ended David Dumbarton's life without feeling a sickness of heart and physical repulsion, but now his aversion and dread were heightened, and he hur ried by as if he feared something hor- RAIN COATSffi m vof 1 11 v «in IIK,navIIUII 17 /Vj CRAVENETTE and Yt I ' £4 CRUCIAL TEST fiA!N COATS I CuttoMeasure, $8.50 1 j fj| WHITE TO DAI for fur I 1 J tiumpti'H 11111 l tlt'SljMlH of I; I 1/ ;ft I': IcM l«-v rurlui |. J t I'-st I tai i> i loth ami Hulilwr Ml ll !":l< k. <1 fill. Il»l« lolls JX I | "\\ i i yarit.cHtti»nien«- j t CHUCtAL TEST RAIN CLOTH CO. J| , rible might issue from its walls and bar his way to the presence of the wo man lie loved. As he quickened his pace he almost ov rtook the servant as she opened the drawing-room door; then he stood quite till and almost breathless, gazing be fore him. The apartment, which was faintly lighted by a single lamp, showed him the figure of the woman he sought, seated at a table on which she had thrust out her arms, between which her head was buried. There was something so j.itiful and despairing in the abandon ment of her attitude that all the misery lie had felt, that day became suddenly •i-centua'.ed. and lie recognized that here iay the cause. With intuitive delicacy he stepped back, until, the servant's entry having listurbed her mistress, the latter rose, and. turning her back to the light, pre pared to receive him. Dimly seen as it was, her pallid face, drawn and hag gard, with its eyes dull and swollen, its month quivering, and, above all, its ex pression of utter misery, startled him. The hand he held in his trembled and felt cold as death. "What lias happened?" he asked, while dreading to hear her reply. "You have not heard?" she said, in a low. broken voice. "I have heard nothing new. Tell the what it is.'' ' All hope of saving me is lost." "No, no, not that!" lie cried out, fiercely, as if in defiance of the state ment. "All. That man—the Italian " "1 las escaped ?" "Has been traced to his grave." "Well ?'• "He died in a hospital a few hours before my husband was killed," she said, striving to steady her voice. In a second lie realized what the con sequences of this discovery might prove to the woman before him. "When did you hear the news?" he a ked, presently. "This morning; the inspector came to tell me."' "And you have been alone ever since your trouble?'' he said, looking at her. "1 sent for my cousin, but I suppose he was not in his rooms when my mes sage reached him," she replied. "Rut tell me about Mack worth; has he no nother clew?" "Not that I know of, at least," she answered wearily. "He may have, though he withholds it from you,'' he remarked. "Why do you think he would keep it back from me?'' "He might not wish to speak until he was able to prove his case." "I see," she answered, a grateful look in her eyes, "you are striving to give me hope, but I cannot blind myself to the fact that circumstances seem dead against me." Though her voice was calm, there was an undertone of pitifulness in it that appealed to her hearer more directly, ■ more keenly, than she could have be lieved possible. "No matter; it's my belief, one of two things must happen," he said, his manner growing more serious, if p6s sible. "And that'" she said, eagerly. "Either the man who killed your hus band will be found—" "Or?" "Or he will confess." She shook her head sadly, saying: "I fear the murderer will never be discovered; you see, all these weeks go by and no definite clew has been ob tained ; as for confession, that I dare not hope for." "Why not?" he asked. "I cannot imagine a man who wotlld be guilty of murder sacrif.cing himself to save the innocent." "But I can conceive circumstances,"' jlli'R. Wliimlow's Soothing Syrup for ChU ilreii Teethlutf relieve* tlie child froiupulo. 25c. a bottle replied Bostock, speaking slowly and with emphasis, "under which a confes sion is not only possible, but probable " "What are they?" she asked. "A man may commit murder through a feeling of hatred or revenge, and yet shrink from inflicting a terrible blow on otic who had never wronged liitn,'' he said. "You think so?" "Js it not h reasonable surmise? lie may through moral cowardice, and in tin- hope that you may lie acquitted of this charge without the necessity of his intervention, wait until the last moment, and then, if there are no other means ot freeing you, he may speak." She shook her head,paying: "I cannot agree with you ; a man who commits murder is not one to make such a sacrifice." After a pause she continued, "It is c o easy to imagine whit wc min:ht do were we situated ns others are, or were, and yet so difficult for us really to put Hnrsfelves in their places. The man who took one life to gratify his hatred or revenge, would not, I think, hesitate to see another life sacrificed to save him self from the consequences of his ac tion." "There may be exceptions," he an swered from out of the darkness. i "There are exceptional men in the world; but I dare say they are very few," she replied. "And I can almost realize," said George Bostock. with a force in his words that startled her, "how welcome expiation would be to a burdened con science, and how necessary a confession might become as an escape from the in fliction of an intolerable secret " "Such things can only be known to and judged of by the guilty," she mur mured. "You mustn't give up all hope yet," he said earnestly, longing to relieve her depression. "But my prospects look black." ''You forget the old saying, that the darkest hour is nearest to dawn." "And you really think that my inno cence may yet be proved?" "I am sure it will," he answered, firmly. "Sure?" she repeated, surprised alike by the words and by the tone of the expression. "How—why- ?" "Because " he began, and then hesitated. "Yes?" she said anxiously, her feel ings wrought to intensity. "Because, as I have c aid, murder will out one way or another." Her eyes expressed the disappoint ment she felt at hearing him express this vague generality instead of some particular explanation. "Is that all ?" she asked, in a low, dispirited tone. Before he could reply the bc-11 of the garden door rang loudly through the house. "It is Valerius," Olive Dumbarton re marked. "I must go now," Bostock said as tie rose. She did not ask him to stay, but said: "You will come and see me again soon, I hope?" "Very soon," lie replied gravely, as he took her hand and looked into her eyes. As he passed through the corridor on his way out he met Valerius, who, wilh displeasure in hi? prominent blue eyes, coldly regarded the publisher. They bowed as they passed without speaking. "She loves him," George Bostock thought, as he emerged into the rain and darkness, and the depression he had felt all day grew deeper yet. (To be continued.) Largest Private Estate By the recent acquistion of a tract of 170,000 acres Santa Gertrudes Ranch, in southwest Texas, already reputed to be the largest estate ifi the world owned by a private individual, was increased to the immense proportions of 2,000 square miles, or 1,280,000 acres. This single ranch is, therefore, almost twice as large as the State of Rhode Island and contains 25,000 more acres of land thatl does the State of Delaware. All this immense area, says Harper's Weekly, is owned by one elderly woman of simple tastes and retiring habits, who takes no active part in its management and does not even live upon the land for the greater part of the year. Her interest in the ranch is strongest during Christmas week, when, with traditional Southern hospitality, she entertains half a hundred guests in the great manor house. However impressive the statistics of Santa Gertrudes may be on paper, the visible reality is not at all imposing. On a slight swell of ground, bv no means high enough to be dignified by the name of a hill, stands the ranch house, a neat white building large enough to serve the purpose of a good-sized hotel, with de tached dining-room and kitchen and abundant verandas, after the Southern style. To the reaf is a g'ass-bordered reser voir fed by an artesian well, an untidy barn and corral, and blacksmith shop and some shade trees. At the right is the ranch commissary, whence are drawn all the necessaries of life and as much of its luxuries as the scanty Mexi can population of the ranch ever know. Beyond the commissary lies a hamlet of neat brick cottages, which house the } Mexicans who are employed at head quarters. From the upper windows of the ranch house one may look out in any direction over an expanse of level prairie fringed with mesquite, until the hazy rim of the horizon shuts out the view; and that is absolutely all. However thoroughly con vinced one may be of the existence of those 2,000 square miles, or of the 80,- 000 head of cattle and 2,000 head of horses and 2,000 goats that graze thereon, as a spectacle the largest private | estate in the world is a distinct failure. 1 It does not take many men to run a big ranch. The total population of Santa Gertrudes, white and Mexican, men, women and children, is three hun dred. If the ranch were as densely pop ulated as Rhode Island it would have 814,000 inhabitants. Even the three hun dred are scattered so that very few of them are ever seen together. The ranch is divided into seventy pas tures. On each of the largest and on groups of two or three of the smaller pastures a family lives. A small pas ture, in this instance, is understood to mean 5,000 acres or so. 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