Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1908-07-12

lifework, might have looked back on the
past years with a feeling that he had not
wasted his time. and that, though he had
been called away before he had accom-
plished his task, yet what he had all
ready done would be counted to his credit
on the last great day of reckoning.
But George Crawshay was not good
man. and the task that he had set him
self to do was not worthy one. He had
spent ten years Of his life in a vain en-
deavor to take vengeance on a man.
And now. when death was close TO him.
he did not even know the name of the
man whose destruction he had sought and
planned.
There was nothing paltry or mean in
this long and useless search. 1t had been
grim. earnest, terrible. 1t had been I'M
dertaken for the love of an only sister.
1t had become the all-absorbing passion
of his life. Looked at from worldly
point of view it had been fine, even noble.
in its intensity. But now, with the
shadow of death creeping across the
floor. how bitter seemed the memory of
reward was success, and George Craw-
shay had failed to achieve It,
IF l could only find him. he muir
INJURED. as he gazed into the fire. IF
is too late. Violet. 1t is too late. And
this is the real bitterness of DEATH
He rose to his feet and walked slowly
across to a table which stood in a corner
of the room by the door. On the table
there was a large oaken box, bound and
clamped with curiously wrought iron. 1t
was medieval treasure, and had once.
perhaps. held the jewels of some fair
daughter Of Venice. Now it contained
the records of the work Of ten years.
He lifted 1t from the table and placed
it on the hearth rug. Then he took key
from his pocket and turned ii in the lock.
Then he sat down before it and. opening
the lid. gazed thoughtfully at the con-
tents.
This" he said to himself sis all that
! have to show for the labor of ten
years"
He took out a packet of papers and
letters and glanced at the date. Then he
smiled grimly That represented the
thirty-one when he had written the date
across it in blue pencil. There were many
similar packets in the box. and each one
contained the result OF a years work;
clues taken up. holly pursued, and aban-
doned; memoranda of interviews with de-
tectives: receipts for money spent in the
search: letters from people who had
known the girl; letters from people who
thought that they had seen her after she
left her home.
He picked up one of the packets and
poised 1t in his hand, as though about to
fling 1t into the fire. Then he hesitated
and dropped 1t into the box.
Not yet" he said to himself. II will
One by one he replaced them in their
casket: then he turned the key in the
lock and carried the box to the table. 1t
was a pitiable scene. George Crawshay,
white faced and trembling, with all the
sum total Of ten years work in that
wooden box. He was man of fine in
tellect and of untiring energy: yet all
strength of body and mind had been used
up to accomplish this-a mere pile of
waste paper. that would soon be cast
into the flames.
He returned to his chair and stared into
the fire. Then, suddenly. the sweat
poured from his forehead. and for a few
moments he writhed in agony with his
nands pressed to his heart. Then he
staggered to his feet and CROPPED his way
across the room. and felt blindly for a
bottle on his desk. He found 1t, opened
1t, and placed it to his white lips.
For a moment he stood still. and the
air was a web of mist and dancing lights,
and there was the roar of some great vi
bration in his ears. Then the mis-; cleared
away and the lights vanished and the
roar died down into the steady beat Of
his own heart.
He walked back to the fireplace and
looked at his watch. He knew that he
was near to death, and he did not intend
to spend the evening in thinking about
1t. He wanted laughter. song, wine, the
smiles of a woman-anythtng that would
make him forget. There was little enough
time left for pleasure, and he could not