The herald-advance. (Milbank, S.D.) 1890-1922, 1907-01-25

Brangwyn on the very day of his fight
from justice. You remember the
scoundrel. He murdered his uncle for
his money and hid him in modelling
clay and worked him up into statue.
Must have been most astonishingly
cold-blooded villain. He was bolting
for his life, boiling to save his neck,
sir; and to look at him you wouldn't
have thought he had a care upon his
mind. He asked me to pass the salt"
And Alexis asked the gentleman
who sat opposite to do him that small
favor
All this time he seemed to be car
ried nearer to the yawning gulf Of hor-
ror and terror which waited for him.
Every footstep led the way. The
steamer sailed toward the gulf. The
night train to Paris painted and strain
ed toward 1t. He was driven toward it
in the fiacre In which he crossed the
Seine, until he found himself at ho-
tel he had known years and years ago
in his student days. He was Paris
born and Paris bred, and spoke the
language as familiarly as a native He
was an excellent mimic, and had per-
feet command Of dozen dialects.
He gave an address somewhere in
the Midi, and his accent of Provence
bore out the pretence admirably. He
broke up sheaf of his large notes
that day for smaller paper Of the Bank
of France, calling at a dozen bureaux
de change to do so. He passed on to
Lille, and there he gave another name
and was man from Normandy. And
so he went his devious way with ali
manner Of shifts and lodges, stopping
with one name and accent at one ho-
tel upon his road, and at another with
a new name and new accent.
The days grew blistering hot as he
steered his erratic southwark course,
and at last he found himself in the
town Of Grasse, an Englishman who
spoke an execrable Cockney French
with equal volubility and inexactitude,
and who was here to purchase the per-
fumed lard for which the town is ia
nous, and from which most of the
scents of English toilet tables are de-
rived. 1t was here he found the gulf
toward which he had been journeying.
He mounted to the room assigned him
at his hotel, and the courteous waiter
handed him a copy of London news
paper.
"Oh, mercy, bocco," said the Cock
ney traveller, and sat down uninterest-
edly to read, and in the printed page
the gulf of horror and terror opened.
His eye lighted on the words, "Solu-
ton of the Brangwyn Mystery. Flight
of the Criminal" He read the ver-
batim report of the proceedings at
Bow Street quite intelligently. 1t was
not that which brought the anguish
which consumed him. The fire of re-
morse had smouldered it's appointed
time and at it's appointed time had
lighted into flame.
His applied chemicals had brought
his hair to snowy whiteness by this
time, and after he had endured the
long-drawn, sleepless agony of that
night his face and eyes matched it. He
went quietly away, carrying his hand
bag with him, and saying that he
would give directions for the heavier
piece to be sent after him.
He walked away and away into the
country, not knowing whittier his foot
steps led him. The land was bare and
arid and the sun environed him with
shroud Of heated steel He sat down
at last at wayside auberge and
quenched his thirst with a draught Of
sour wine. Then he went on again
for mile or, maybe two.
There he paused and looked about
him.
There can be nothing worse than
this" he said, aloud, "and there is no
end to it. Well, then, let us make an
end.'
He drew the little leather case
which held the phial from his waist
coat pocket. He removed the stopper
and the odor Of bruised peach stones
filled the air. He raised the phial to
his lips and tilted it, and in the very
act he fell. He made one convulsive
movement and then lay still.
Ito BE Continued.)