Omaha daily bee., 1900-01-07

room. l went gladly, for such a chance
came not often, and certainly was not to
be missed. And as l stood by the curtain
of the bedroom cleansing the sickness
from my fingers and wiping my mouth with
the silken lining, l saw a dark figure pass
from side to side of the wide, west-looking
alley in which a certain reddish light yet
fingered, reluctantly to depart altogether.
But l thought nothing of this. For a servl-
tor going to the great house or one Of Mr..
Spurway's weavers in search of a hare to
boil the pot was no unusual sight at the
Lodge Yeti.
/ went down, and as l came near the door
of the little parlor in which | had left UNI
phray Spurway and my mother, | paused
for no reason at all connected with them,
nor God wot) with an idea of spying upon
their converse. For espionage at least
(whatever my other faults) was never any
part of my nature.
l heard my mother say, ut is useless,
Mr.. Spurway. 1t is, indeed, most useless
l will not listen-no. l can never listen.
Before all have my duty to the boy, and
this of all days is not the time to speak
of such things. Think Of him that was my
husband and is so no more!"
! could not hear what was said in reply
by Umphray Spurway, though | am sure my
mother was weeping. For at that moment
| felt a hand close on the lobe of my right
ear, and old Caleb Clinkaberry bore me
triumphantly to the door of the parlor, with
a great piece of West India sugar in my
mouth, which ! could neither swallow nor
yet rid myself of, so high did he hold my
head. He opened the door, crying, See,
madam, what | caught this fine young gen.
tleman att"
But that which we saw turned us to stone
in the very doorway. My mother had dropped
her broidery work and stood erect. Umphray
Spurway was just letting go her hand, which
he had been holding. But that was not the
surprise and terror for me.
My eyes were drawn irresistibly to the
window, 1t was one of the narrow and high
French sort opening in the middle, for the
house had been built in King Charles time
that it might be a summer pavilion for a
former lady of New Milns. Now the
lattice stood open, and the wind rushed
bowling triumphantly through me house,
shutting every door with dreadful changing
o: iron and the clatter and clink of falling
glass and breaking crockery,
Framed in the blank blackness of the
opening appeared a head, wild, disheyelcd,
hardly human, the throat bare and the
ragged collar of a coat far too wide appear
ing beneath. 1t was my father, the man
We had thought already hanged by the neck
in the Grassmarket of Edinburgh! Philip
Stansfield, the parricide. His eye glanced
along the level tube of a pistol barrel.
Traitor and traitress, | have you both,
And now | will send you to hell together"
he cried, and so, without another word, with
SCATTERING distinctness, fired.
With a little shrill cry my mother tot
ta.-l -.-.
softly sank back into Umphray Spurway's
arms. Then, quick as thought, the face van
ished from the window. The leaves FLASHED
to. The Englishman gave my mother into
the arms Of Caleb Clinkaberry and, without
waiting to find his hat, he pulled a pistol
from his pocket, looked at the printing, and
rushed through the front door Of my
mothers house into the black night in pur-
suit OF the double murderer.