The Abbeville press and banner. [volume] (Abbeville, S.C.) 1869-1924, 1910-01-05

to Philip Trevor myself. There was
a chance, slim, indeed, but a bare
chance, that he might listen, f2r-he
was my father"
"Mr. Craven-Teddy!" cried Jac-
queline.
Eyes. He married my mother,
Margaret Craven, of Yorkshire, Eng,
land, in his early youth. He deserted
her and she returned to her own
country. her own people. At my
birth she died. My mothers kindred
cared for me, educated me, and called
me always by the name Of Craven.
When 1 reached maturity I came to
America, and th3'e learned that my
| father had covered himself with in
fanny, and was practically a fugitive.
Accident flung me with the Wingates,
and with the daughters of John Hat
| ton, who had suffered SO much at
Philip Trevor's hands. I cannot hope,
| Miss Hatton, that you will pardon me
for being his son, but permit me to
| say this: Should I find the fortune
of which you and your sister were so
vilely robbed, it will be my blessed
| privilege to restore it intact to you"
"Oh, MI. Craven" said ~Jaequeline,
this is, indeed, a strange thing to
hear! And yet 1 know, I feel, that
you are speaking the truth! The
son Of Trevor! But you are not like
him-no, neither in body nor soul,
you dear, good boy!"
1t was an involuntary cry, wrung
from her by the kind, honest eyes
and frank, open face that looked into
her own. She forgot then that he
had aver been her 'lover-her whole
heart went out to him, as to one who
had suffered wrongs greater than her
own.
Il blame you for being your faith
er's"son?" she said, Indignantly. mo
-no-never!"
He drew some papers from his
pocket and pressed them into her
hand.
Thank you'll" he said, gratefully.
Here are my mothers marriage
lines, and the certificate Of my birth
and baptism. I brought them with
me, thinking they might be needed
in the interview which I meant to
Il. re with Philip Trevor. I beg you
to read them, and I-I-will 60 away
by myself a little while, and try to
realize all that has happened"
Before the day was done the dis
mantled house had yielded its secrets.
The bodies of Philip Trevor and his
wife we're recovered from the ruins,
and likewise the few charred bones
that remained of the man Peter. All
were buried together on the island.
The safe, built in the wall of the
library was found uninjured. Aided
by St. George and Jim Bumpus, Ted
dy Craven opened it, and took charge
of its contents-bonds, securities,
money and bank accounts. The young
man was Philip Trevor's sole heir,
and Deadman's Island, and all other
possessions Of the deceased, belonged
now to him.
Jacqueline returned to Doris and
the Wingates, and st. George to the
white-haired mother and the little
hunch-back son, in the aristocratic
Back Bay house.
To John Hatton's daughters, Teddy
Craven restored every dollar Of John
Hatton's fortune. Jacqueline's en-
deavors had brought her nothing-it
was solely by lean of the insignif-
cant Teddy that the lost wealth came
back to it's rightful owners. Vic and
Jim Bumpus received, on their we'd
ding day, a fine new fishing schoon-
err, a snug house at Watchhaven, and
a sum of money that secured them
from future want. Then Deadman's
Island was left to the storms Of the
Atlantic and the tragic memory Of its
late possessors; for Teddy Craven,
after adjusting the affairs Of his de-
ceased father, received a sudden call
to England. His maternal relatives
desired his presence there. So Teddy
shook the dust of America from his
feet and sailed sadly away.
1t was an opera night, with Verdi's
passionate music pulsing in the air.
In a corner of her gilded box sat JAG
queline Hatton, gazing dreamily
down upon the stage. A cream-white
cloak, bordered with ostrich tips and
lined with soft rose silk, like the first
blush of dawn, slipped back from her
dazzling shoulders. La France roses
dropped in the lace of her corsage,
here and there & diamond flashed
from the rich coils of her hair. Miss
,Wingate, in 4 neighboring chair,
made a quiet foil to the beauty Of
her companion.
The soaring voice of the silver
throated tenor rang through the
house. George st. George, standing
in the shadow Of the curtain behind
Jacqueline, heaved an impatient sigh.
"Of all the operas Verdi wrote, the
best, to my taste, is the T~rovatore,"
she murmured, mischievousiy. But
you are not listening to this aria"
NO." he admitted, with reckless
ca1doT. Il did not come to the
opera to hear arias, but to talk to
you"
"Merci! Already Miss Wingate is
looking at us in wonder"
Miss Winsate's eyes have no ter
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