The Hope pioneer. [volume] (Hope, N.D.) 1882-1964, 1912-12-05

mem through again slowly. this time
to myself, fixing each sentence indel.
IDLY IN mind as I proceeded. But be-
ore had quite come to the end, my
was speaking.
"Well?" he said. And the light
of his tone was not only in
marked contrast with his grave alb
sorption Of a moment before, but in
Earring discord with my own present
mood. "Well?, What do you make Of
them?"
My annoyance found voice in my re.
Spouse.
Cameron" l begged, for Gods
sake be serious. This doesn't seem
to me exactly a matter to be merry
over. l don't want to alarm you. but
somehow I feel that these" and l
shook the cracking, wax-like sheets,
that these cannot be utterly ignored"
But they are anonymous" he re-
torted, not unjustly. Anonymous
letters should be burned and forgot
ten"
There are anonymous letters and
anonymous letters" l gave him back,
IN turn. These are of an unusually
convincing character. Besides, they
- And then l paused. 1 wished to
tell him of that elusive encompass
ment of sinister portent which had so
impressed me; of that malign forebod-
ing beyond anything warranted by the
words; but l stumbled in the effort at
expression. Besides" I started again,
and ended lamely. 81 don't like the
Dol and the feel of them"
And now he was as serious as l
could wish.
"Ah!" he cried, ' leaning forward
again and reaching for the letters.
you have experienced it, too! And
you can't explain it. any more than I?
1t is something that grips you when
you read. like an icy hand, hard as
steel. In q glove of velvet. It's al
ways between the lines, reaching out,
and nothing you can do will stay it.
! thought at first l imagined it, but
the o%ftener I have read, the more l
have felt its clutch. The letters of
themselves are nothing. What do you
suppose l care for yelled threats of
that sort1 I'm big enough to take
care Of myself, Clyde. I've met peril
in about every possible guise, in every
part Of the world, and I've never real.
ly known fear. But this--this is diff
ferent. And the worst of 1t is, I don't
know why. can't for the life of me
make out what it is I'm afraid Of"
He bad gone very pale, and his
strong, capable hands. which toyed
with the two letters. quivered and
twitched in excess of nervous tension.
Then. with a finger pointing to the
ink-stain at the bottom Of one of the
sheets, he asked:
What does that look like to your"
I took the letter from him, and
s%crutinizing the rude figure with con-
centrated attention for a moment, ven
tured the suggestion that 1t somewhat
resembled q boat.
"A onemasted vessel, square
rigged." he added. in calculation.
Exactly" 90
Nov. turn 1t upside down."
did so.
Nov what do you SECT"
THE head Of a man wearing q bel.
met" The resemblance was very
marked. 4 81 IT,
IA straw helmet, apparently" he
amplifed, such as is worn in the
Orient. And yet the profile is not that
of an Oriental. Now, look at your yes.
sci again" And once more l reversed
the sheet Of paper.
Can it be a Chinese junk?" I asked.
1T might be a sailing proa or ban
ca" he returned. such as they use in
the South Pacific. But whatever 1t is,
l can't understand what 1t has to do
with me or l with It,"
was still studying the black daub,
when he said:
But you haven't told me about the
handwriting: What can you read Of
the character Of the writer7"
Nothing" l answered. promptly.
1T is curious penmanship. as you say
heavy and regular and upright, with
some strangely formed letters; es-
pecially the r. and the p's; but 1t
tells me nothing"
But l thought" he began.
That l boosted? So I did. When
one writes az one habitually writes. 1t
is very easy. These letters. however,
are not in the writer's ordinary hand.
The writing Is as artificial as though
you, for example. had printed q note
in Roman characters. Were they ad-
dressed In the same hand?"
Precisely"
What was the post-mark?"
They bore no post-mark. That is
another strange circumstance. Yet
they ere with my mail. How they
came there l have been unable to as
certain. The people at the post office
naturally deny that they delivered
anything unstamped, 10 these we're;
and Barrie. the lad who fetches the
letters. has no recollection Of these
Nor has Checkabeedy, who sorts the
mail here at the house. But each Of
them lay beside my plate at break.
fast-the first On the fourteenth Of
August: the second. this morning. the
fourteenth Of September"