Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1906-07-15

Solo, | think.
Not the same" said David with due gravity
THE man mean is an Italian crimnologst of great
note. He lays it down principle that a signature
of that kind is a sign of moral degeneracy. Keep an
eye on those among your clients who such
flourish, Mr.. Dibbin.
Good gracious!' cried the agent, casting glance
at the we-stuffed letter-cases of his office. How
many moral degenerates had left their sign manual
there?
Two more questions" went on Harcourt
Where do Miss Barnes's relatives resde?'
Her name not Barnes" the instant
answer; but am pledged to secrecy in that regard
There is a mother, a most charming woman and a
sister, both most charming ladies' of family very
highly respected They did not discover the unhappy
girls death until she was long laid to rest
Then, why is the fiat still in the condition in
which Miss Barnes inhabited it?''
All, that is simple enough. Isn't the agreement
valid for nearly year yet? When that term ex-
pires shall dispose of the furniture and hand over
the proceeds to the young ladys heirsat-law, SUBJ
ject to direction of course, in the real lessee
ever puts in a claim.
David strolled out into the crowded solitude of
the streets with vague mind of Gwendoline Barnes
and Johann Strauss two misty personalities yelled
under false names. But they so dwelt in his mind
that he asked himself if he had fed from the pursuit
of living woman in far Wyoming to be haunted in
England by dead one? Like most strangers in
London he turned to the police for counsel and told
to an inspector duty at pocestaton his tale of
the Whit of violes, of the eXtnguished light in his
corridor, and of the real ancied brush Of wom-
ans skirt somewhere against wall carpet. He was
listened to with kindness, though of course with
out much faith. However, he learned from the in
SpectOr the address of the coroners court where the
inquest had probably been held it was near bv and
Davds steps led him thither. There he asked some
questions at haphazard, without picking up any
thing of fresh interest; unless it that Gwendo-
line Barnes lay buried in Kensal Green cemetery
1t late in the afternoon. He strolled
down Tottenham Court Road into Holborn, ate a
deferred luncheon on Oxford-st., and started to
saunter back home, Sinking a theater matinee
which rkSome, since it the fixed thing his
program. But it struck him halfway home that his
Charwoman gone that the fiat lonely; and
he got into a cab, saying to the driver, Kensal
Green cemeteryi -
Some electric lamps were a-ficker already in the
streets. 1t was nearly the hour at which London
loudest, when the city begins pour out its
hOrdeS, and hurry to their bourne, with blocks
in the traffic, and more haste less speed. When he
reached the cemetery the closing time was imminent
A little snow lay among the graves, through which
the grasS-tufts showed, making a ground of black
and white Some few stars had ventured to peep
from the windy sky. A custodian supplied David
with the formal information which he sought. The
plot of ground had been bought in perpetuity: it
in a shaded place good distance from the
entrance an Iona cross, erected by friends, marked
the spot, bearing the one word, GwendOne."
1t is late, sir, said the man. But mighty is the
power of the tip, even in cemeteries.
David walked down avenue of the dead toward
the little mound that covered the young actress. He
perhaps twenty yards from it when he heard and
almost stopped at the sound of a sob not far away
He looked this hand and that, but could no
one. The place with its silent pOpulace, more
lonesome than the prairie; and a sense had
been steadily growing up in him since eleven thirty
of the previous night-the sense of the other
world, of its possible reality and nearness. There
odor here strong enough to his keen nostrils
of flowers especially of violets, and of the last end
of mortal man, blend of sweet and abhorrent
which to infect his mind for many day. How
ever he did not hesitate but with slower steps that
made hardly sound, turned a corner of the PATH
cleared a clump of trees which had blocked his vew
and now the grave of GwendolneQ the cross
chapet of fresh violets the foot of the cross and
over the cross woman weeping
She weeping bitterly, her face in her hands,
her body shaking with grief though little sound