Atlanta Georgian. [volume] (Atlanta, Ga.) 1912-1939, 1913-11-18

stood both the stitching and stamping of
leather, and once he found himself duly
speculating as to what career he would
have carved out for himself were he
given in boyhood the opportunities they
rejoiced in.
But throughout there was in his sur
charged brain current of cunning pur-
pose. First. there was Grenier, away In
the North, robbing a dead man and
plotting desolation to some girl He
must be dealt with.
Then he, the slayer, must be slain,
and by his own hand. He would spare
his sons as much pain as might be with
in his power
He would not merely disappear. leav-
ing them dubious and distressed No
They must know he was dead, not by
suicide, but by accident They would
mourn his wretched memory. Better
that than alive with the abiding grief
| Of the knowing that he was Philip An
sons murderer.
He was quite sure now that the dead
would arise and call for vengeance If
he dared to continue to exist. Yes, that
was ia life for life-a prayer that
his deeds might not bear fruit in his
children-and then death, speedy, GER
tain death.
Some reference to the future made by
Willie, the younger. who favored his
| mother more than the outspoken John,
gave Mason an opportunity to pave the
| way for the coming separation.
II don't want you two lads to make
| any great changes on my account" he
said slowly. ut is far from my inten-
ton to settle down here. and let all
are supporting a ticket-of-leave father
Yes, l know. You are good boys. and
1t won't be any more pleasant for me
toto live away from you, than 1t would
be for you--under-other conditions--to
be separated from me. Butt am in
earnest in this matter. I will stop here
tonight just to feel that 1 am under
the same roof as you. 1t Is your roof,
not mine. Long ago lost the right to
provide you with a shelter. Tomorrow
l go away. l have some work to do
a lot Of work. 1t must be attended to
at once OF course, you will see me,
often We can meet in the evening
go out together-but live herewith you
Il can't"
His sons never knew the effort that
his speech cost him. He spoke with
who quickly interpreted the less pro-
nounced signs of mans thoughts,
winked warning at his brother.
He said with an optic signal:
A Horrible Dream.
|, mot a word now, John. Just leave
things as they are
Under any ordinary conditions he
would be right He could never guess
the nature of the chains that encir-
cled his father, delivering him fet-
tered to the torture, bound hand and
foot, body and soul.
a last they all retired to their
II rooms, the boys TO whisper kind
4 h ly plans for keeping their ia
Their a prisoner again in their hands;
Mason to lie, open-eyed, dry-eyed,
through the night, mourning for that
which might not be.
The rising sun dispelled the dark
phantoms that fitted before his vision.
He fell into fitful slumber. disturbed
by vivid dreams. Once he was on a
storm-swept sea at night, on sinking
ship, a ship with a crew Of dead men,
and a dead captain at the helm.
Driving onward through the raging
waves, he could feel the vessel settling
more surely, as she rushed into each
yawning caldron. Suddenly. through the
wreck Of flying spindrift he saw a
smooth harbor, a sheltered basin, in
which vessels rode in safety. There
were houses beyond with cheerful lights
and men and women were watching the
doomed craft from the frm security Of
the land.
could see no entrance to that harbor;
naught save furious seas breaking over
relentless walls OF granite.
Even in his dream he was not afraid.
He asked the captain, with an oath:
is there no way in?"
And the captain turned corpselike eyes
toward him. 1t was Philip Arson. The
dreamer uttered wild beasts howl,
and shrank away
Then he awoke to find Willie standing
by his bedside with soothing words.
at is all right, father. You were dis
turbed in your sleep. Don't get mp yet.
1t is only o'clock.
At that hour a policeman left his cot
tage in a village on the Yorkshire coast,
and walked lelsurely toward the Grange
House
He traversed four miles of rough
country, and the sun was hot, so he
did not hurry. About half-past six he
reached the farm. There were no signs
of activity such as may be expected
in the country at that hour.
He examined three sides OF the build
ing carefully--the sea front was mac
cessible-and waited many minutes be-
fore he knocked at the door. There was
no answer. He knocked again more
loudly. The third time his summons
would have aroused the Seven Sleep
ers. but none came.
He tried the door. and ratified It;
peered in at the windows; stood back
in the garden, and looked up at the bed
rooms.
"A queer business" he muttered. as
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