The Irish standard. [volume] (Minneapolis, Minn. ;) 1886-1920, 1898-03-05

49,
hand on Mr.. McLane's shoulder, turned
him sharply, and accostcd him in low,
somewhat angry tone. The moment he
spoke Mr.. McLane struck furiously with
his right hand at the others face, then
thrustitinto his overcoat pocket, where
later pistol was found. 1t was at this
instant that the other fired. The car
riage horses, startled, attempted
to run, and by the time the
coachman had reguined control
Of them they were some dis
lance down the street. On his return,
Mr.. McLane was being borne into the
club. Quite little crowd had gath
ered but nobody but himself and the
friend referred to, who was some
what Intoxicated, had seen anything of
the shooting. A ncighbor said he saw
a man and woman hurrying round the
corner, but that was the last of them.
The police have clew which they re-
fuse to divulge. Mrs. McLane, who
was attending the brilliant reception
given at the residence of Hon. j. l.. Sam
bourne, was not informed of the trag-
edy until an hour later. and was pros
tAolSo W tuc e44OCk. IAI tuIec d. III.
the wounded man was resting under the
influence of opiates."
Breathless, Merriam listened, his face
paling, and breathless Florence watched
him. When the reader had finished
and his wife began to ask questions,
Florence. said no word. Her dark,
pathetic eyes were fixed upon her hus-
bands pallid face, then timidly she
stretched forth her hand. Randy,
dear!" she whispered.
Merriam reused himself with sud-
den start. Forgive me, Floy, Floy
darling! But this is a dreadful shock.
Will you mind my getting paper?"
and he looked appealingly about him.
A waiter sprang forward. Did the cap-
tain wish anything? The morning pa
per? Certainly. Which one? Oh, any
one-all of them in fact; and present.
ly they were brought, as was the break
fast, and the breakfast grew cold while
he read on through paper after paper,
grcwsome details in one and all, yet not
the details he sought.
And Florence had lost all appetite and
was intent only on him, waiting almost
meekly for him to speak. Some of the
papers declared the injuries mortal.
Randy passed the papers one after an
other without comment TO her, as he
read them. She took each us it came,
obediently, helpfully, but folded and
laid it by her side, then returned to her
wordless study of his troubled face. At
last the fourth sheet was finished, and
with a long sigh he turned and saw
her. "My darling! my darling!" he
whispered, a great shame and Sorrow
overpowering him as he noted the in
tensity of her sympathy minglng with
the mournful sense of her utter moth
ingness to him at the moment. ooh.
Florence, how could l be so forgetful
of you? But l have had a dreadful
shock. You do not know, what this
means. what it would mean if McLane
should die now-and / cannot tell YOU"
And all she said was: Flush! Randy,
dear. l don't wish you to tell me now"
But McLane did not die-at once, at
least. Three weeks the police worked
at that clew and the doctors at him,
and neither with much success-cer-
tainly with little help from the victim.
who was in woeful state of collapse
much of the time, protesting ignorance
Of any excuse for shooting on the part
of anybody, and consumed with dread
full fear of death. 1t was wonder that
under the circumstances he rallied suffi-
GENTLY to be up and able to be moved.
The March winds Of Frisco were
leagued against him. The doctors
wished to take him back to Coronado,
but he declared that any part of CALI
fornia would be death to him. He
wished to go home at once. Within
the week of the shooting Ned Parry ar
rived from Chicago, and had some long
interviews with his sister-in-law, but
was not allowed to see the patient;
neither was she except at rare inter-
walls, an at1liction which she bore with
Christian resignation. Then Parry had
to go back, but not before he had re-
ceived note from Merriam, had visited
him. and had shown every attention to
and deep interest in his gentle bride,
and had had one long conference with
the husband, alone.
When Mr.. McLane was declared well
enough to move they carried him
aboard a steamer and sent him 10 Pana-
ma, Fanny, his wife, in attendance, as
in duty bound. But even the best and
biggest stateroom was close nnd stuffy,
as she said, and her hours were mainly
spent on deck. 1t was the nurse who
had to bear with Mac's ceaseless plants.
lie had grown suddenly old, childish,
decrepit, fearful. They had to stay
some days ut Panama, and had q
wletched time, at least he did, being
transferred thence to Havana, where
he was enjoined to remain ut least six
weeks. But some morbid longing
drew him irresistibly back to New
York. Go he would, and in April they
exchanged the summer seas, the soft,
perfume-laden air, the warm sunshine
of the tropics for the fogs and buster
OF the North Atlantic scaboard Pncu-
monia set in and claimed the feeble
wreck for its own. Several weeks be-
fore the anniversary Of that brilliant
wedding and still more brilliant re-
ception, Fanny McLane was weeping
decorously in widows weeds and listen
ing to the details of the last will and
testament.
Much, but not all, had been left to his
beloved wife, Frances Hayward Nc
Lane, but even that much was curiously
bestowed. Why should Uncle Mcllen
be so largely q beneficiary? Whv