The Spokane press. [volume] (Spokane, Wash.) 1902-1939, 1905-08-29

| more; they will ask you no questions.
I'm fact, I am to turn smuggler for
the sake of your bright eyes, Usca?
you will not refuse me. The
money is of much consequence. We
are not rich; we
How was l to say no?
was to keep the lace, if I got it
| through safely--as, of course, / knew
l should--keep it till she called for
it or her husband came; and for that
purpose, nothing loath I confess, I
gave her my address in town.
I thought a good deal of the fasci-
mating Usca that night, but little of
her lace. Next morning when I came
to look for the parcel of loce it had
| disappeared.
The loss of it led me to examine
| further, and I found then that I had
| been 'burgled" of everything of any
| value. l was right in anticipating
| trouble from the beetle-browed hus-
band. Directly he heard my story
they came early that afternoon-he
| laughed in my face.
"Altro. 1t is too old trick" he
| cried with coarse, insolent derision.
I'VE want our lace. Stolen Co.'S
petto, That cock won't fght!".
flush! Pepino. please" Usca in
| terposed, The signore is a man of
| honor"
| Il will have my lace or the value
| of it," went on the ruffian. He was
| so brutally offensive that 1 was in
| doubt whether to throw him out of
| the window or call in the police.
| But then Usca? She stood there
fearful. despairing, broken hearted,
yet without sign of reproach in her
beautiful eyes.
Eventually, after much haggling,
in which Usca took no part, except
| to use her great beseeching, eloquent
eyes in support of her husbands con-
tention. the price was fixed at fps.
l began to realize that Usca brought
me decidedly bad luck.
| l was to meet Usca once again.
The third occasion was also in Paris.
a favorite haunt of mine was a cafe
| in the Avenue Montebello, and l was
there one afternoon, when / heard
the music of an accordion accompany
ing a voice singing an old familiar
| air
| 1t was the old wild song of the
Lake of Garda, and Csca herself was
the performer--Csca once more great
| ly changed Now neither the peasant
nor the lady. but Usca. with all the
tawrdy, dirty finery of street mu-
stefan.
| She saw me first, l think. but was
disinclined to approach until l half
rose and bcckoned to her. Very re-
luctantly she sat down at my table
and accepted some refreshment; but
as l so evidently sympathized with
her and meant kindly, she thawed a
| little and told me her story. Sad
| enough it was. full of grief and
trouble. disappointments, losses. Her
husband-well, the least said was
best. He had clearly not been a
success. Now he was i'll, and she
was compelled to turn out and earn
enough to keep the wolf from the
| door
| pressed some money into her hand
| al promised more if she was in need
and would ask me. This cafe was a
sure find any afternoon
She came back more than once
not merely. as | hoped, for the aims
never refused. She said it COM
fortcd her to see and speak to me;
that l reminded her of days long
past and gone-h'Npier days-and as
she said this her now hard, hungry
face softcned Il little and the old look,
still strangely beautiful. frightened
the dark depths of her passionate
eyes.
one day she begged me to come
and see her husband lie wished
much to speak to me. lie was fan
too i'll to leave the house l need
not stay long. And of course | went.
Five stories high, under the roof,
l found the suffering Pepino, lying
on the bare floor seemingly at the
last gasp | approached and was In
the act of STOPPING over him when
was seized from behind, my head
was enveloped in II cloth saturated
with chloroform, and | lost all con-
seriousness then and there.
| When | came to the light was
streaming in through the dormer win
dow, and l gradually made out where
was
| | supposed I had been hocussed,
stripped and robbed But no. at least
my clothes were left to me, for they
were thrown anyhow on the floor by
my side.
| had free eGress; the door stood
unbolted. | met no one ON the stairs
or in the street, but made good my