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

| mems OF their work, for they under
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 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
I was it-a life for a life-a prayer that
his deeds might not bear fruit in his
chidren-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
your friends become aware that you
are supporting a ticket-of-leave father,
Yes, l know You are good boys. and
it 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 l am under
the same roof as you. 1t is your roof.
not mine Long ago I lost the right to
! provide you with a shelter. Tomorrow
| I go away. ! 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
! cant"
His sons never knew the effort that
| his speech cost him. He spoke with
such manifest hesitation that Willie,
who quickly interpreted the less pro-
nounced signs of a mans thoughts,
winked a warning at his brother.
| He said, with an optic signal:
A Horrible Dream.
+, mot word now, John. Just leave
| things as they are
| Under any ordinary conditbps he
would be right He could never guess
the nature of the chains that, encir-
eled his father, delivering him fet-
tered to the torture. bound hand and
! foot, body and soul.
| last they all retired TO their
| "A rooms, the boys to whisper kind
| 4 n " 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 MS vision.
| He fell into a fitful slumber, disturbed
! nv vivid dreams Once he was on a
= storm-swept sea at night, on sinking
| shin. 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 q
| smooth harbor, q 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
But. strain his eyes as he would he
| 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:
rs there no way in?'
| And the captain turned corpselike eyes
| toward him 1t was Philip Arson. The
dreamer uttered a wild beasts howl,
and shrank away.
| Then he awoke TO find Willie standing
by his bedside with soothing words.
1T is all right, father. You were dis
turbed in your sleep. Don't get up yet.
1t is only o'clock.
At that hour a policeman left his cot
tage in a village on the Yorkshire coast,
and walked leisurely toward the Grange
House
He trayersed 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
4 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
i 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