Wausau pilot. [volume] (Wausau, Wis.) 1896-1940, 1907-02-19
NEUTRALITY-SUSPICIOUS.

i
glance. There was nothing remarkable
in his being there at this hour, even if
the night had been less tempting to a late
stroll. He was man of odd, ascetic
habits, sometimes combining himself for
days together n one room, at others wan
dering on the downs night after night
in weather that made even the coast
guard shirk his duty.
who are your" he asked, stepping
forward.
Bernard Thorne."
Il thought So" he said, and then add
ed in a peremptory tone, "Tell me what
you are doing here. You have come here
to see my daughter, You have written
to her."
Il have done nothing Of the kind"
| is that true?" he asked, in a tone
that stung me.
| You have never known me to attempt
to deceive you,' 1 answered, warmly.
Indeed You promised you would not
return until you had a fortune to offer
my daughter
And on that condition you suffered me
to hope that | might make her my wife.
1t was an expedient perhaps to get rid of
me. You did not expect me to return
before you had married your daughter to
husband more to your taste than your
late secretary. But you held out that
hope to me; / accepted it; and now that
you see me here you know the reason
| have fortune to offer your daughter"
1T is incredible. | was told you had
gone to America. Even there you have
not had time to make a fortune-hon-
estly"
Il dare not trust my tongue to answer
you after that insinuation," said l, STEP
ping aside in order to pass him.
wait" he said, putting his stick rude
ly before me. Our estimates of for
tunes may differ considerably What is
this fortune you have made?'
Il cannot tell you. 1t may be ten
thousand pounds; it may be less''
Ten thousand pounds Do you know
that my daughter may accept a husband
with twenty times that amount? You
mistake your position. What is ten thou
sand pounds?"
Enough to make me independent of
your generosity, and that is all | sought.
| dare now to ask your daughter to be
my wife, and It is for her-not you-to
decide whether | shall be her husband or
not
"One moment. One question at least
l have a right to ask, and one which
you, with the antecedents of your fam
lily before you, ought to answer. How
have you come by this money!"
II am not n state of mind at this
moment to tell you my history If told
you now you would think me more mad
than my presence here at this time gives
you reason to suppose l am. In pro-
pei time and race l will tell you ALL"
Before you speak to my daughter?"
yes" Upon that we separated with
out another word.
l greatly regretted this meeting with
Sir Henry and the avowal it had led
mt to make. For. ardently as | desired
t. meet Miss Duncan. and put my fate in
her hands l felt that l must do my
duty by my faithful little friend, and
provide for Psyche's future happiness be-
fore | considered my own. | must wiring
a confession of the mysterious crime from
my grandfather, and find the girls fam
lily. l had promised not to abandon her.
but without that promise my heart would
never have suffered me to 60 away from
her, as she pathetically put it. until |
had found those who had right to take
my place as her guardian and dearest
friend. If Sir Henry Duncan thought
fit to question my grandfather about the
fortune | had acquired, the old rascal
discovering my escape, would, to avoid
unpleasant consequences to himself, get
out of the way before 1 could draw a
confession from him.
l reflected also that Mrs. Benham or
the telegraph 10y might spread the news
OF my return in Bonport, and that this
would speedily reach Old Peters ears and
put both the old rascals on the alert
However, there was one simple way of
securing my grandfather, and that was
to forestall others by tackling him at the
very earliest hour. With the determine
ton to go over to the Halfway House
as soon as it got light l returned to the
cottage and lay down without taking off
my clothes, that 1 might not oversleep
myself. Nevertheless. it was broad day
light when L awoke, and then it was
only Psyche's cry of delight from the
next room that aroused me. The canary
was singing.
"Hark the little :" she cried.
| babe her sleep again until l called |
her, and slipped noiselessly out of the
house, fearing my going would trouble |
her if she knew it.
Looking down to the shore from the |
cliff at Deadmans Point saw the waves
bursting over the scattered rocks where |
We had risen from our burrow the day |
before. The great blocks were so closely |
thrown together thar it was impossible |
TO distinguish the exact spot. and l |
knew that by this time the sea had wash !
ed in the sand and efaced all sign of our |
work. 1t seemed TO me now hardly pos /
sible that we two could have been lying !
toiling under that fallen cliff for more 1
than four months. Something unpleas- |
antly akin to thirs. for vengeance pos /
sessed me as | neared the Halfway I
House and thought of the old villains |
who had doomed me TO perpetual impris- |
onment there and Who had robbed poor |
Psyche of all that makes youth and life !
worth having.
Turning the handle softly, found that i
the door was locked. The blinds were /
drawn down. Over the window pane /
had broken TO get into the place on the /
day of my capture sheet of brown paper /
had been pasted. | wetted my fingers, /
struck it in the middle. and made a hole /
through the brown paper without noise. i
My grandfather was stumping about in 1
the wash house, for this was about the I
hour when he sent down our breakfast. /
Taking advantage of the noise he made, I
l tore down the brown paper. slipped !
my arm through, and unfastened the i
catch. The next minute l had the sash !
up, and the minute after that ] was
standing in he little parlor.
The wash house door was closed. 1 |
orened the door silently and found my /
grandfather in front of me, leaning over /
the well with the cord in his hand. For +
just one moment my fingers itched to slip l
that cord round his neck and pitch him /
down the we'll.
Can't make the beggars out" he NUT /
tered: in genial they comes fast enough |
for their grub, and it's lucky day when /