Catoctin clarion. [volume] (Mechanicstown, Md.) 1871-1940, 1899-01-26
THE GRAY TOWER.

THE GRAY TOWER.
What am going to tell you Is not
really the whole Of the tale, but only
the first chapter; yet 1t is good story
in itself, and there are some things
which make me unwilling to say all
l know, at least In print.
The Gray Tower was the southeast
corner turret Of that stone building
which stood until quite recently ON
Waverley place, at the corner of Wash.
ington square. 1t had picturesque
effect as you walked down University
place from Union Square, and 1t was
almost the only romantic building IN
New York.
My first chapter opens on winters
day about 1890 or 1892, II recollect
rightly. 1t was showing heavily as !
stepped into Broadway, and / turned
up my collar and stood moment IT.
resolute. The old horse cars tangled
by with .Aeir bells muff1ed IN the
snowy storm; the tall newspaper offices
across City Hall square twinkled and
shone from their thousand windows,
and was slowly turning toward the
Park place station, when l saw what
l guessed, even at that distance. to be
a familiar figure cross the brilliant
light of one Of the highest windows on
the other side of the square. 1t was
Collins. No one else moved about a
room in just that Looping, darting man
ner. l knew it was his Office, and l
knew he was the very man l wanted
to see before dinner. I hurried over
to Park Row and was shot up to his
floor.
"Hullo, old man: busy?"
'No no; come in."
Collins sat under an electric light, q
pair Of shears in his hand and q sea
Of papers tossing round him. He part
ed the red hair back from his forehead
with his left hand, and looked up
quickly with that childish, gnome-like
smile, and the piercing, glittering, blue
eye-light, that hiE friends knew SO
WELL Suddenly he dropped the shears
and ran his long, conspicuous hand
hurridly through the stack OF old pa
pers he had been clipping.
Look here, look here! This Is what
you ought to see! Where is that copy?"
What are you looking for?'
Something l found this afternoon.
It's romance; a whole story of forty
years ago; the most startling piece of
fiction in real life. And not scare
head to It! o, those fellows didn't
know how to make up paper"
(Fumbling all the time and rummag-
ing with that aggressive hand.) Now,
l have lost 1t. Where in the name Of
seven"
Then he swore feverishly in q high
minor cultural.
."Ah, here 1t is. Look at that look
at that!'
His eyes were like glowing steely
gimlets, and the perspiration started
on his temples in his excitement. 1t
was nothing but an old scrap Of un.
believable romance he had unearthed.
1t had no possible use to him. But
he was always a tinder- box Of en-.
thusiasm, and fired like a child at
small things. Collins has no particular
part in this story, yet l can never dis.
sociate him from it. Its strange un.
explainable quality has a certain kin
ship with his half -canny personality,
so that never recall 1t without feeling
his eyes burning into me with In.
credulity and delight and defiance and
mockery, as he handed me that torn
issue of New York Journal Of half
century ago.
AS he said, they made little display
of startling matter In those days, and
the story, as l remember, was told In
that brief, sober way which has since
become almost extinct among news.
paper men.
Briefly, it was an account of
strange discovery made by some work
men who had been repairing one Of
the towers Of the old building on
Washington square. In making theif
renovations they had come upon dis
used closet, whose door had been
bricked up and roughly plastered over.
On the closet floor, covered with i'm.
palpable dust, clothed In her silk even.
ing dress, lay the beautiful specter
Of woman.
l say specter, for 1t seems destruc.
tion had come upon her so gently, SO
furtively, that her body was almost
unmarried, except for the dinginess of
where she lay, or there had been some
time. There are records of such iu.
stances, showing that dissolution is
not always swift to follow death. But
whether the present case had been due
to the sealing of the narrow room
chemical treatment of her body and
garments after death, was all surmise.
But there was the fact. On the dusty
floor, in a little apartment scarcely
larger than an ample bath, as If she
had fallen in a faint, with one arm
spread abroad and the other hand at
her throat slept young beauty, arrest
ed in mid pleasure $50 she looked, and
held there in duress while the busy
round of life rumbled in the streets
below. 1t must have been the very
pathos and wistfulness Of beauty-the
image of that shadowy loveliness.
snatched away from the midst of Joy
and gayety, SO untimely, and not even
allowed the common boon of oblivion.
Where was she all this while, the radi-
ant spirit who had dwelt in that come
ly tenement? Had she herself, too,
like her frail, indestructible person.
been held in suspense somewhere,
neither among the living nor the dead?
1t was white, white silk and mass
of white lace, that she was dressed in.
And under the soilure Of dust the pale
gold Of her hair was shining and alive.
But the only clew to her identity was
the small cambric handkerchief, In
itialed In one corner N. D..
When had read the article, Collins