LUCILLE/ LOVE. The Girl of Mystery
A Soul JhriUina Story of «£oi>e, devotion, ganger and Jfntrigue
■By the "MAS TETd PEJV"
Copyright 1914. All moving picture rights reserved by the Universal Film Manufacturing Company, who
are now 'exhibiting this production in leading theaters. Infringements will be vigorously prosecuted.
are now exniosiing »«■«
CHAPTER XXXXVIII.
A Crumb of Bread Makes a Loaf of Hope.
fUCILLE awoke to a numbed sense
of failure, defeat, of loss> irrepar
able. For a few moments she al
lowed her head to rest against the
pillows, perfectly passive, retracing
the course of her efforts in the fight
with Loubeque for recovery of the
papers up to this disastrous ccfti-
Theft, dishonor, treachery had
pointed lean fingers at her sweet
heart with accuracy such as only a loving woman
could deny. And, "despite it ail, she had jeered
at the possibility of such a thing' being true,
had staked life, "honor everything and anything
unhesitatingly whenever it appeared a point might
be scored against Hugo Loubeque by so doing.
And for what? She dressed leisurely and for
some time was seated at her window scattering
crumbs on the ledge for stray birds. As she
crossed the room a moment later a metallic sound
struck against her ears again and again before
she was even conscious of it. She. looked about
the room then made out the sound coming from
the window ledge. Curiously she regarded the
pigeon, strutting about there, eagerly devouring
the crumbs. Upon his leg she saw a tiny, brajß
cylinder, tap-tap-tapping with his every step.
Her heart gave her a warning, thumping
■violently even as she recognized the prftty crea
ture for st carrier bird. Stepping quietly to the
window of her bedroom she stared about her,
a smile crossing her face as, by careful count,
•he made out the crumbs upon the eighth win
dow ledge from hers. That would be Hugo Lou
beque's apartment.
Swiftly, softly, tremulously, for fear the bird
might have fled, Lucille reached the ledge, her
voice low and caressing as she reached, an infini
tesimal fraction of an ipeh at a time toward the
carrier. Once he lifted his wings, poised a second.
Lucille halted in her approach, then, as the bird's
doubts were allayed, reached out and clasped him
firmly, surprised that he made no effort to escape.
In a second she had detached the cylinder, taking
the tiny tissue paper note from it.
"Arrangements complete. Deliver papers to
Ensign Howell, U. S. Ship Terror, with affidavit
as to sale by General Sumpter Love, now under
trial, Washington, D. C. At jour residence; 5 :30."
Lucille gasped as she took in the meaning of
the message! For just a moment she sat staring
dully ahead of her, dismay and terror frozen in
her eyes. At 5:30 the international spy's work
would be completed and her father ruined. But
a few hours and the stolen papers with the lie of
Loubeque accepted, and immunity doubtless
promised, would be in the hands of the prosecu
tion.
She clenched her fists tightly together, pac
ing up and down the floor of her suite, her pretty
teeth fastened upon her under lip, her very being
vibrant with protest at the horrible injustice of
it all. It must not be. It could not be. She
stopped suddenly. It should not be. Calmly she
crossed to the writing desk and added a line
through the hour appointed, carefully making an
eight of the five. She scanned the result 'of her
labors with knitted brows.
She loosed the pigeon, pointing him toward a
window which was open. She knew Loubeque was
growing impatient from that sign. Furtively she
watched the eager hands clutch the bird and draw
him from view. The window slapped shut once
more.
Loubeque was there, just a few suites away
from her, was even now gloating with satisfac
tion over the fruition of his life's work. The
thought made her beat her fists together against
the enforced waiting. She had never felt so ut
terly Impotent before. There seemed nothing
possible to do but sit and wait—wait—
But wait she could not and would not do.
So few hours remain wherein to regain the pre
cious packet of papers that she must be at work.
The papers were but a few short suites away,
on the very same floor.
His residence she knew must mean the house
of mystery, the weird place of horrors, of sliding
staircases and folding rooms. That Loubeque
should choose such a rendezvous showed how
plainly he considered the last trick in the game
of his life played, how absolutely assured he now
was of absolute and final success. At five thirty.
Ensign Howell would be at that house. She had
three hours wherein to work. But the hours be
tween —what of them? She could not endure in
action at this moment.
With the thought she rose and moved toward
the door, closing it softly behind her. For a mo
ment 6he hesitated in the hall, then stepped boldly
to the suite of the spy, rapping upon the door.
CHAPTER XXXXIX.
The Butler-Thief Hakes Hit Last Bid.
tIUGO LOUBEQUE, master of men and nations,
whose power was so great the course of Em
pires halted at his spoken word of command,
moodily stared out his window after the carrier
pigeon he had just released. For forty years he
had bent every energy of his life for this day;
every hour of those forty years had contained a
dream of bis revenge so dear to his heart it had
caused him to redouble his energies. And now
that it had come, Bomehow she sweet- had turned
bitter upon his palate.
He stirred a bit uneasily in his chair. He
had almost been lulled to sleep by the spell of
the past that had woven itself for him. His mis
sion was not yet complete.
Strangely enough, a tender smile played
about the corners of his hard mouth as *he
thought of the girl upon the same floor with him,
the girl who was the image of the Lucille of forty
years ago, tile Lucille who, at the climax of his
scheming, at his supreme moment when he had
possession of the papers stolen from General Love's
safe, had flown out to the speeding Pacific liner
and thenceforth tltrough jungle, shipwreck, fire,
war, starvation had continually thwarted him,
hounded him when he held the tipper hand and
defeated him time and again. No, not till the
actual transfer of the stolen papers and his affi
davit into the hands of the Ensign would he act
ually know that Lucille had finally been beaten.
Lucille He murmured the name over
tenderly, even as his fingers plucked the precious
picture of the girl's mother from his breast
pocket. He had treasured that picture above all
other possessions these forty years, yet now he
found himself regarding it merely as "the likeness
of the daughter. Lucille the daughter of that
other Lucille of the long ago—
He rose impatiently, ashamed of the mellow
mood that was upon him and moved across the
floor. Th.e slightest swaying of the curtains that
connected with the bed-room caught his eye. He
did not pause, did not even hesitate but a hard
look crept into his eyes. He resumed his seat
after a moment, took his gloves from the table
and busied himself strangely with them. A tap
ping o'n the door made him frown impatiently,
then answer it, smiling to find Lucille, dressed for
the street, confronting him.
"Since the mountain won't come to Mohamet,
Mohamet must go to the mountain," she Quoted
with a light laugh, a laugh that belied the worn
expression about her lips.
"The mountain certainly knew of no desire"—
laughed the spy, frank pleasure on his counten
ance. "Is it a walk you planned—tea—?"
"An invitation to luncheon," she returned,
"and I wonder if it would bo too much to ask
of you to see that they give me a good machine
for the afternon."
"I'll 'phone," he responded, hardening instant
ly at the shadow of displeasure that crossed her
face. Evidently she wished to be rid of him. He
smiled to think of how close the game Mas to
being finished. Somehow, he could not get any
acute pleasure out of it now he looked at this
Bmiling girl and realized that precious few would
be the smiles upon that face after he had finished.
But, pshaw! Why would his mind persist in think
ing of such things. He bowed and repeated the
hour of their engagement as she tripped down
the hall, then resumed his seat at the table.
From a drawer there he took a small, thin
mirror which he slipped swiftly into the flap of
hip glove, then placed the glove upon his hand.
A grim expression was on his face as he leaned
back in his chair once more, his eyes fastened
upon the entrance to the bedroom as revealed to
him in the mirror even though his back was
turned from that entrance.
Hour dragged upon the heel of hour, chased
each other out the room as though frightened of
the silent, motionless figure at the table. Hugo
Loubeque took no account of time save to make
the most of it when action was necessary and to
throttle it when delay seemed best suited to his
purpose. Slowly the grey head of the man swayed
from side to side. He caught himself abruptly.
Again his head sank toward his chest, this time
to remain there. Apparently Loubeque slept as
he did everything else, soundly, yet with the least
possible amount of effort.
The portieres swayed more and more heavily.
Grew the outlines of a human face against the
smooth velvet. Through the opening crept a pair
of furtive eyes. Slowly, slowly, the face of
Thompson showed. He did not bother to look at
the slumberer. Before revealed himself he had
made sure that his old master slept soundly.
Swift, certain, sure, he moved beyond the curtains,
lite thief who had been selected by the arch-spy
to attend to his most important plan made no
sound. So soft his footfall it seemed he might
have walked across the strings of a musical in
strument without a sigh rippling from them.
Closer, closer, a step at a time he advanced.
The hate had left his eyes, for there was no time
for hate when bent on business. Almost close
enough to reach out and rest a hand upon Lou
beque's shoulder he was, when ke halted, his
mouth dropping ludicrously open, his feet ap
parently gummed to the carpet, his fingers twitch
ing uncertainly, his eyes fastened in amaze at
his own face as it stared back at him from the
tiny mirror in the gloved hand of Hugo Loubeque.
• As lie recovered, his hand darting swiftly to
ward his pocket, the sinister laughter of his mas
ter broke the silence.
"Keep the hand in the pocket, Thompson.
Keep it there or I shall be obliged to shoot and
muss the place."
The butler-thief's upper lip curled back from
his teeth, giving him the expression of an angry
mongrel dog. All the servile politeness had dis
appeared from his manner and his soul lay bare
upon his face—the soul of a hyena with the heart
of a fox.
"And you thought to play with me," Lou
beque murmured wonderingly, more to himself
than to his captive. "The man who knows me
better than anyone else thought to catch Lou
beque sleeping. You dared come near me after
the second affair."
Thompson seemed to gain a bit of courage
from the man's tone. Indeed, underlying the
words, was a self reproach, a query, a bedazzle
ment that he knew Hugo Loubeque had never felt
before. His hand started to creep from the pocket
of his coat but an emphatic, little gesture of the
spy's with the tiny automatic in his palm para
lyzed thdse clever fingers.
"Xo, no, my dear Thompson. Don't think I
am getting old. If I but had the time I should
strangle you with these hands. They itch for the
feel of your throat once more. Remember the job
was not completed properly through no fault of
my own. I have a little favor to ask you "
The thief growled something inarticulate but
Loubeque smiled his mockery of an honest mirth
once more, taking the delight of a cat in playing
with the mouse it has captured and frightened
into partial inanition?
"You must pity'me since you think I have
grown feeble and old enough to continue to play
such pranks with me, don't you now, Thompson?"
The man's eyes glittered venomously as he
fastened them upon the toes of his boots, disdain
ing to answer.
"Certainly you do and that is pleasing to an
old man who is breaking. Now, Thompson, just
step to the telephone and call up the desk down
stairs." He made a significant little gesture with
the revolver and the man hurriedly took down the
receiver, his face a pasty yellow.
"Say there is a hotel sneak thief in Mr.
Loubeqne's apartment waiting to be arrested. Mr.
loubeque has no time to make charges now, but
will return shortly or meet the procession down
stairs."
The receiver dropped clattering from the
thief's hand. Loubeque waved the automatic
quietly toward it and, as the pitiful eyes of his
former servant met his own, they read no pity
there, nothing save a cold vindictive intent. The
trembling hand took up the receiver once more
and, word by word, transmitted the message as
it fell like icy particles from the spy's lips. Then,
as though stung to uncontrollable rage by the
needless cruelty of his punishment, Thompson
whirled toward him, words falling from his lips
in hot, unquenchable fury.
"Turn me over, will you ! Well, listen to what's
coming to you when you do it: I know a thing
or two "
"You know too much," smiled the spy coolly.
"That is exactly the reason I am disposing of—"
"And I know about her," the thief's hand
waved toward the corridor. "Maybe I can't tell
a thing or two about you and, her. What's she
doing here —what's the reason she got on the
Empress and stuck to you ever since "
The revolver slapped against the opposite
wall as Loubeque hurled it at the man's head,
following it with his flying body, his frame crash
ing the man to tne floor, his fingers groping for
the vile mouth that spluttered on.
"I ain't s-aying as what you and me know—
I'm a saying as what I can tell and what it'll
look like. What "
Loubeque turned his head suddenly, his ears
fairly peaked with the eagerness of his listening.
The rattle of the elevator outside reached his
ears. He sprang to his feet, dragging the butler
after him.
"We must get out," he breathed hoarsely. "We
must get away before they come. I'll—l'll kill
you—for this "
Swiftly the pair darted through the door and
down the hall. Loubeque hurriedly twisted the
knob to Lucille's door. It flung open. With a rasp-
HARRISBURG TELEGRAPH
ing sob of relief he dragged Thompson after him
and slapped the door shut, maintaining his hold
meantime. The flurry of rushing feet was in the
corridor. Breathless he waited, listening with
every nerve in his body.
Once a puzzled expression crossed his face as
a little feminine cry of fear and dismay reached
his ears. He heard a scrambling, rushing sound,
the slapping of a door, the jar of the elevator
cage, its rattling descent, then silence. He turned
to the traitorous servant.
Lucille Opened the Window and Slipped Inside,
Her Bosom Heaving Tumultuously at This Op
portunity to Search the Suite of Hugo Lou
beque. *
"And that is what you would say—would
tell?" His voice was not harsh, not even indig
nant, merely curious.
"That's what," Thompson straightened, a
touch of braggadocio about his very figure.
Slowly, inexorably the fingers of Hugo Lou
beque reached out and grasped the man's wrists.
Slowly, inexorably, he pressed the cold mQtal of
the automatic into the useless palm. Slowly, in
exorably that weapon-bearing hand was lifted,
lifted until it pressed against the blueing lips of
the thief, then stopped. Loubeque's voice was
soft, purring, soothing.
"Open the teeth, my old friend—open them
or 111 knock them out. Put the gun inside your
mouth. It's simple—only a second —then a longer
trip than you've ever taken before. Don't fight—
it's useless —you should know that. Surely you
won't resist and make it hard for your master.
Just think —if you don't —I might be called—a
murderer —while—if you follow instructions —it's
—just—suicide—"
, With every syllable he rendered the wrists
of the struggling man more feeble, forced the steel
muzzle of the gun more and more harshly against
the tender gums. As he pronounced his final
judgment, the judgment lie hoped would prove
that of a coroner, the muffled shot beat against
the walls of the room. Thompson writhed, then
straightened. Loubeque held tightly to th£ wrists
until rigor mortis gripped them about the weapon.
He rose slowly, rubbing his hands softly to
gether as though brushing away something of
fensively filthy. At the door he looked back and
smiled at the silent Thing that had but a moment
before been Man.' ,
"Not so old, Loubeque," he murmured; "not
60 old, after all."
CHAPTER XXXXX
Lucille Finds Eavesdropping Has More Disad
vantages Than One.
A3 Lucille stood in the 'doorway of Loubeque's
room, her eyes always keenly suspicious to
the slightest trifle when about the man. observ
ing that as he talked with lier, his eyes were
fastened upon the gloved hand. Instantly it had
struck her as strange he should wear a glove in
his room. Then she caught the reflection of his
eyes and saw the mirror flashing in that palm,
the eyes of the man watching the curtains lead
ing to his bed chamber. They swayed slightly.
Then she made her adieus for sbo knew Loubeque
was not alone.
In her own room she paced the floor nerv
ously. What did it mean? Someone had entered
Loubeque's room, was spying upon him, and the
surreptitious presence had been discovered. The
visitor was under surveillance. But who could
that visitor be; what was his motive?
Thompson—Gibson ; Gibson —Thompson. Her
ssveetheart and the butler thief both might have
motives for such an entry. That it related to the
stolen papers she had no doubt. Suppose they
were taken by some other just at this last mo
ment. But the man behind the curtains had
little if any chance against Loubeque, now he had
discovered them.
It was not curiosity, merely the fixed de
termination to run any and all risks before allow
ing any move in the game on this last day to be
outside her knowledge that made her place her
head outside the window. She heard the mocking
voice of Loubeque but dimly—still it was his
voice and surcharged with menace. But how could
she gain an entrance, how see what was trans
piring?
She quietly stepped to the flre escape. Two
high and wide ledges separated her from the fire
escape outside the spy's suite. She looked down
and shuddered. Black bugs, bursts of vapor burst
ing in their wake; tiny mannikins walked about
below. She would not dare Came remem
brance of herself walking across vine ropes with
snapping wild beasts beneath her. She dared
them —why not again?
She dared not look down, dared not think,
dared do nothing save heave a sigh of relief when
she found herself safe once more outside the
'spy's window. It had been easy after all. She
looked back and shuddered then stooped and
peeked within the room, strangling a little ex
pression of rage and shame as Thompson's threat
came to her ears. Breathlessly she watched the
men struggling upon the floor, unable to under
stand the hurried retreat of both from the room.
She opened the window and slipped inside, her
bosom heaving tunmltuously at this opportunity
to search the man's suite.
The door slapped open just as she was ex
ploring the drawer of the table. She felt herself
seized by the wrists, uttered a cry of protest
and dismay and pleading, only to look into
strange, brutal faces, the faces of house detec
tives and not the sardonically friendly one of
Loubeque.
"Nipped in the act!" grated one of them, as
he dragged her toward the door. "The cabaret
dame, too!"
Protesting, weeping, hysterical, Lucille was
dragged to the elevator and bundled into a cab.
L'nable to think, to reason, she only realized the
full extent of her calamity when the green globe
before the grim police station loomed before her
eyes, as she was roughly assisted from the cab
and taken before the uniformed sergeant behind
the desk.
She might have been unconscious, so little
was she actually aware of what was transpiring.
Acute, yet merely subconsciously so, she knew
she defended herself stoutly against the charge
of being a hotel sneak-thief, showing over five
thousand dollars to prove she did not need to
stoop to such work. She feverishly cited th?
obvious ridiculousness of Hugo Loubeque's mak
ing such a charge against her. In explanation
of her presence on the fire escape, she had noth
ing to say. The sergeant was frankly puzzled.
Obviously this girl was not a thief. The bril
liant idea struck him of summoning the jeweler
from whom she claimed to have received the
money. Also the failure to produce Loul ~u«
argued heavily against the house detective's case.
And all the while Lucille paced up and down
the floor, white-faced, miserable, her lips moving
as she muttered over and over Sgain her princi
pal worry, forgetful of the horrible mess she had
gotten herself in:
"Five thirty this afternoon —Ensign Howell
calls for the papers. Five thirty—five thirty—l
must be there —must be—must—must —"
And the station house clock grinned wide
derision at her, its hands pointing ironically to
ward the hour of four.
CHAPTER XXXXXI.
An Ensign Feels His Dignity Offended.
IT lacked but fifteen minutes to five before she
found herself upon the street with the jeweler
who had rushed to her assistance and, after a
short conference with the officers and detectives
had arranged her release, personally agreeing to
produce her when desired. On the sidewalk he
told her that only his knowledge of her parent
age, her possession of the necklace and her
speaking to him before of the stolen papers en
abled him to believe her story.
"If you know Loubeque has the papers," he
demanded as a triumphant clincher to his ex
ordium, "why don't you call on a policeman to
protect you and to rescue them?"
Lucille smiled faintly at. his commonplace
advice, realizing the absolute impossibility of im
pressing anyone with the power of her enemy.
And she must hurry to the mysterious house
where Ensign Howell was to call at five thirty.
Even as she thanked her friend, bidding him
good-bye at the door of the motor car, coughing
impatiently for the passenger who had sum
moned it. she noticed a policeman importantly
swinging his club, sole symbol of authority, and
thought of the slim chance he would have
against a spy who might swing rulers to work
out his ends. No, the little jeweler could never
be made to understand.
Hurriedly she searched the streets for the
mysterious residence of Hugo Loubeque. Noth
ing mattered to her now. She did not care what
happened to her. She was a cat —a tiger cat
more savage than any she had encountered in
the jungle, for they had failed and she would
not fail in this, her last attempt against the in
ternational spy.
She had ten minutes leeway before the En
sign was due to call, ample opportunity if sne
had not forgotten any details of the message.
The house was vacant, just as she had thought it
would be, for Loubeque would never trust him
self for a long time to the place that had once
been raided. It would suffice for this short bit of
business—that was all.
She let herself easily by the door, the
smashed lock of the raiding party never having
been replaced. Swiftly she rushed through the
familiar rooms, the sliding rooms that held so
many horrible menacing thoughts for her. With
lightning fingers she examined sliding panels,
moving picture frames. In the desk drawer of the
spy she. found a medium sized automatic, the
silencer still fastened on it. She shed a tear, as
she moved to the basement, for the gallant cap
tain of the liner who had lost his life through
one of these weapons while endeavoring to assist
her.
In the basement, as she expected, she came
upon the system of levers that controlled the
intricate machinery of the household. Plainly
marked they all were, also k.he speed and velocity
with which the work might be done was indi
cated by a simple system of buttons. Lucille
tested several, finding they answered readily to
her touch, when she was interrupted by the
clanging of the bell.
The last act in the play was about to be be
gun. Ensign Howell was at the, door, unless the
spy had detected her trick in tampering with the
message of the carrier pigeon. All the weeks, the
months of peril and privation were things for
gotten, tilings that became as nothing against
the work before her now. Steadily she ascended
the stairs.
Per right hand, which had been clasped the
revolver concealed beneath her coat, unclasped,
and a sigh of obvious relief came from her lips
as she opened the door to greet n young Ensign
in uniform. She did not quite know what she
would have done had it been Loubeque.
"Ensign Howell?" she murmured, flushing
prettily at the admiration and astonishment on
the officer's face at being greeted by such a vis
ion. "I am very sorry," she murmurpd hurriedly,
as he started to enter, "but Mr. Loubeque was
obliged to leave hurriedly. He left word that he
would surely be at any place convenient after
eight forty-five."
"Any place convenient!" The officer's tones
were more of surprise than vexation.
"That is," she hesitated, "where it would be
convenient for a cutter or boat of some sort to
take him to the Terror. That matter is of such
importance he does not care—that is—"
The young man straightened himself, his face
wearing an expression of wounded dignity. Lucille
heaved a sigh of relief.
"That is quite Mr. Loubeque's privilege," he
snapped. "I shall write the address on a card
where the cutter will lie so there can be no
further mistake."
Lucille accepted the card negligently, hold
ing her eyes averted that he might not read the
ecitacy that fairly flooded them. She watched
his ruler-straight back as it disappeared down
the street then clasped the card feverishly to
her breast. The first move had been made and
she had more than taken the honors. High hope
beat in her heart because of the little victory.
She snapped her teeth tightly shut. Yes, the
papers would be taken aboard the Terror but
not by Hugo Loubeque. Neither would there be
any affidavit with them from the arch spy. She
was ready for anything now. Time and again
the man had placed her life in danger, had
stopped at nothing 1 to gain possession of the
packet. And now the means were in her hand*
to play a man's part, and an unscrupulous man's,
in this warfare. She took the revolver from its
hiding place and exumined it carefully. Yes, she
would shoot to kill if necessary. Loubeque must
not win. As though to test her courage, she
stepped into the big living room. A portrait in
oils of the owner of the house looked down from
the walls at her. Steadily, relentlessly, without
a qualm, she lifted the automatic and fired. Thf
canvas ripped squarely across the face and
Lucille turned silent4|r and continued her ex
amination of the house.
Laggard time for once flew while she waited
the long interval that was to elapse before the
arrival of the spy. Lucille found once more the
tunnel through which she had been led, found
mysterious passages and explored them, studied
out the position she would be in when she com
pleted her work with the enemy who was to
come.
A step sounded overhead, slow, measured,
methodical. She pressed close against the switch
board to the house of mystery, the emanation of
the mysteries. Her fingers trembled slightly. The
feet moved up the stairs. She waited, fingers
outstretched toward a little ivory button. The
cool surface kissed the finger pad, the pad upon
which depended the honor of father and sweet
heart, which spelt home, life, love to her.
Somewhere a clock was ticking. No, it was
her heart. Pounding, pounding until she thought
the sound would deafen her. Still, she waited.
From above—silence.
CHAPTER XXXXXII.
The Hour Appointed.
J-JTGO LOUBEQUE moved slowly to his private
office on the second floor. He shivered slight
ly as he went up the stairs. Ghosts were in the
house, ghost-memories that he was about to slay
, finally and forever. And all the ghosts were
those of Hate, had always been those of Ilate,
until this slip of a girl had come here.
He seated himself at his desk to wait, wan
dering off in a day dream of pleasanter memor
ies. Lucille—how her very presence here had
made the place bearable! What had the witch
done to him that she could entice away ail the
grim visions of blood and carnage and evil
through which he had gone in his life pursuit of
revenge? He took the. precious packet of stolen
papers from his pOcket.
The sweet he had longed for was his now
and it was not sweet. No, all the sweetness
of his life had been since first he looked toward
the heavens and the giant man-made bird brought
into his life Lucille. And this greater sweetness
he was about to turn to gall and wormwood that
he might cling to an aged memory.
He slapped his flst heavily upon the table,
cursing himself for a fool that such thoughts
should oppress him. Forcibly he recalled the days
at West Point, the theft of his sweetheart by
Sumpter Love, his own disgrace and expulsion
and the hard, barren life that followed. Hate
was king, had always been king and would be
crowned this- night—this very minute—
What ailed the Ensign that he did not come.
It was past the time appointed. That was most
unusual. He strode nervously up and down the
floor. Nerves tightened within him. Could it
be- was it possible that, after all—Pshaw 1 Away
with such child's thoughts. He was a man, had
always played more than a man's work in the
game of life.
Alone.' Always' had he been alone. Servants.
Yes, there were still servants but they must, be
held in abject fear, must sometimes he killed
even as Thompson had been killed. Thompson
The beginning of the papers had been with
Thompson, and now how v(\ry close the end had
been the butler's finish. The icy terror on that
face at which he had glanced back, etched itself
upon his brain and he shrank away from it. He
flung out his hands in a wide gesture of defiance
and simultaneously the ,floor gave way violently
beneath him, flashed down with lightning speed,
bringing up upon the basement floor with such
violence that everything in the room was over
turned, while he himself lay half stunned against
the table.
He staggered away, finding himself so weak
and dazed he was obliged to clutch the table edge
to keep from toppling over. Something cool and
soft brushed against his hand, then the softness
grew as iron and his fingers were loosened from
their clutch. He staggered back, back against
the basement wall. He heard Lucille's voice, ut
tering a little cry of delight. His hands en
countered the light switch, instinctively pressing.
The room was a flood of yellow light in the
center of which, slowly retreating toward the
tunnel exit from the house,, revolver pointed
steadily at him with eyes sighting behind the re
volver that were harder even than the giant of
metal stood Lucille Love, the precious packet of
papers in her hand, the fingers of which clutched
them in a death-defying grip.
Slowly, without a word, she disappeared from
view, departed as abruptly, as unexpectedly as
she had appeared, making use of the spy's in
genuity to turn it against him in this, his
greatest hour. Fqr a moment he could not think
or do anything, then he darted toward the tun
nel!, staggering back as a white hot iron
seared his brdw even as an orange spurt of flame
leaped out the darkness at him.
He could not charge that way. He dashed
to the stairs, rushing into the open, hatless', wild,
dishevelled. An automobile stood before the door.
He directed it wildly toward the tunnel entrance,
arriving there barely in time to see Lucille step
inside another motor car and dart forward like
a living thing. '
Helpless, hopeless, yet fighting on with bull
dog ferocity, Loubeque continued the chase. Times
he would lose her only to pick the car up again
in the most unexpected place. Then, for a full
five minutes, along the water front, she disap
peared.
A husky, irate chauffeur stepped before his
Mriver and slammed open the door.
"Hey, youse," he bawled angrily, "whatta yuh
i mean chasln* a loidy like dat?"
i Loubeque did not answer. Instead he put a
question, snapping it in a tone of authority that
made even the man cringe,
i "Where did she go?"
The driver passed him a grimy card. The in
. ternational spy turned it over in his hand, read
, ing the address upon it and marking that it was
i not a block away. On the obverse side he read
Ensign Howell's name. The chauffeur was point
ing olit upon the harbor. Loubeque looked, marked
the slim figure of Lucille standing upright in th<
briskly-manned cutter approaching the big ship,
i A speck of white fluttered in her hands. Ii
dropped. The hands themselves flung out fare
, well to him and, as the big ship slowly disap
peared, leaving in its wake but a whirl of rush
ing water, he turned away.
. His shoulders seemed to have slumped in th<
I half hour, his face to have undergone a chisel in |
i process by the sculptor Suffering. He turned awaj
i slowly. A smile crossed his face.
I "That must be her handkerchief coming in,'
s cried the chauffeur, rushing down and rescuinf
the filmy bit of lace,
s \ Loubeque took it, passing the man a banl
; note. When he entered the machine, he borie4
s his face in it —still smiling.
. (Continued Next Week),