Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1890-02-01

back to his workshop. This, / believe, is the
last that was ever seen of him."
NO doubt he is knocking about Europe
knows? He may be here tonight The Schweitz-
erhof would be q capital resort for man who
was wanted by the police. The very publicity
OF the hotel would be his safeguard"
/ sat there cold and trembling while they
talked, oh, so indifferently as il ii mattered
nothing that an adored husband and father
should be lured away to some horrid den and
| cruelty murdered. And then the dear face
came back to me in all its brightness-the
happy smile,the candid gray eyes. The loved
voice sounded again in my ears, just rs il my
father had that instant called to me from the
| garden Oh, how could my mother get over
| such blow as that? The wonder was not that
| she had grieved dreadfully, but that she had
| ever ceased to grieve. And nothing had been
done. His death was unavenged, his murderer
| was walking about the world unpublished.
Yes, as that man said, he might be in Lucerne
| tonight
| did not cry out or faint or do anything to
create a disturbance. For a minute or so there
was a rushing in my ears, and the pillars of
the portico seemed to rock, and then my head
| grew cool and clear again. But felt that ]
could not go on sitting quietly there, and ]
| started up and asked one of the men who had
talked about my father to make way for me,
| and broke through the double range Of sitters
| somehow, and ran down the steps and away
| toward the cathedral and then up the hill AT
the back of the hotel. I wanted to get away
from the crowd, from my mother and Uncle
Ambrose, from every one and everything, just
to be alone with my thoughts Of my dear dead
father.
| The narrow path up which went to the top
Of the hill was quite deserted at this time. ]
| stood on the hill top alone, looking down al
the lighted city, SO picturesque in its stiffness,
the quaint old roofs and gables and market
| squares and narrow streets which it had been
such delight to explore with Uncle Ambrose
| only yesterday, but which looked at now with
| dull unseeing eyes. Pilatus lifted his snow
crowned head above the further shore Of the
lake. and over all there was the clear light OF
| the moon, clear yet soft, leaving great gaps of
densest shadow, black depths where the lamps
twinkled here and there, singly or in clusters OF
warm red light, which seemed q relief after the
| GOODNESS of the moon and stars.
l had noticed all these things the night be-
| fore, when j stood in the same spot with Uncle
Ambrose. l noticed them mechanically to-
night while my heart beat loud and fast with a
passionate longing to do something, weak,
| inexperienced girl as / was, that should slowly,
laboriously, surely lead to the discovery and
| the punishment of my fathers murderer.
How is it" asked myself, "that one muir
| derer escapes and that another who seems to
| leave but the slightest indications to lead to
| discovery is arrested within week of his
crime? What is it that makes the chances of
| criminals 80 uneven, and how is it that the
police, who in some cases seem to exercise q
| superhuman intelligence, seem in other cases
helpless and laundering almost to the verge of
| idiocy?''
had heard this question discussed great
| deal within the last few weeks in relation to a
mysterious murder in Liverpool and had
| taken an intense interest in the subject; a
morbid interest, Uncle Ambrose told me
when talked to him about it He reproved
| me for occupying my mind with q CHASTITY
| story. Ireminded him that the story of this
murder was no more CHASTITY than the story Of
AgamemnOn's murder or Of the string Of muir
ders in Macbeth" and that one might as well
be interested in real horrors as in fiction
| Little did think then that there would come
day when should have stronger reason
| for brooding upon this CHASTITY subject
stayed on the hill long time, forgetting
everything, except the horror that had been
made known to me that night-forgetting most
| of all that my absence would alarm my mother.
was startled at last by the cathedral clock.
which began to strike the hour. counted the
strokes and found that it was IL o'clock
had been away from the hotel more than an
| hour.
] hurried back and on the way met Uncle
Ambrose, who scolded me for going out alone
at such late hour.
'Your mother has been anxious and agitated
about you, Daisy" he said; how came SO wise
person to do such foolish thing!"
Il don't know-I forgot" said
"Where have you been all this timer"
"On the hill up there, looking down at the
town"
My dear Daisy, how could you forget that
your mother would be alarmed at your disap-
pearanceY
Il forgot everything"
And then l told him what had heard an
hour ago in the portico. l asked him why the
cruel truth had been kept from me during all
those years? l looked at his face in the moon
light and saw more trouble there than l had
ever seen in nv life before
ut would have been cruel to tell you the
truth, Daisy. The greatest curse of life is the
existence of idle chatterers who must always be
babbllng about other peoples business. II
wishes could bear fruit, it would be bad for
those men you overheard tonight"
had never heard such anger in his voice as
l heard then.
GOD only knows the pains your mother and
| have taken to keep this trouble from you, "
he said. 1--WE have pledged all who knew you
and were about you to silence. We have
hedged you round with precautions. And yet,
| in one unlucky minute the prurient gossip OF a
| wonder monger illustrates all our care
81 am glad know."I answered. "Do you
| think wanted to live in a fools paradise?-to
| think that my father died peacefully in the
| arms of friend, when he was brutally MUIR
dered? You don't know how loved him or
you would know better than that"
was angry in my turn-and now tears came,
| the first which had shed since l heard the
story OF my fathers death-tears of mingled
anger and grief. i siezed Uncle Ambrose by
| the arm. was almost beside myself
''You were his friend" 1 said, .his closest
| friend. Almost like brother! Did you do
| nothing to avenge his death2 Nothing, moth
| ing?"
Il did all that mortal man could do, Daisy.
/ stimulated the police to action by every
means in my power. I did not rest till all that
could be done had been done. 1t was in con-
cert with me that your mother offered reward
| large enough to set all Scotland Yard on the
alert. II the murderer escaped be assured it
was not because his pursuers were careless or
! indifferent. Had he been prince of the blood
| royal the endeavor to solve the mystery of his
| death could not have been more intense than
| it was"
"What idiots the detective police must be-"
exclaimed
NO. they are not idiots, Daisy, though it is
| the fashion to call them SO when great crimi-
| nal evades pursuit There are some uncom-
| monty clever men among them, and there are
some uncommohiy clever captures and discov-
cries made by them. But now and then they
| have to deal with criminal who is both clever
| and lucky, and that was the case with the
| wretch who murdered your father"
Tell me all about his death-every detail" ]
said.
"What good will it do for you to know,
Daisy? he asked in his pleading voice; Just as
| he used to talk to me years ago when was a
| child and inclined to be naughty. For Gods
| sake my dear girl, try to forget all you heard
| tonight. Think of your father only as you
| have thought of him hitherto, as one who was
taken from you in the flower of his years and
| who sleeps quietly in his grave, honored, loved
and lamented. The manner Of his death makes