The Washington herald., 1914-03-01
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a friend, and was having lunch at
the railway-station diningroom be-
lore returning to my work. just as the
waiter had brought me what / ordered
two men, coming hnrriedly In, took the
only vacant seats in sight-at little ta-
BILE next to mine. Something in their ap-
pearance attracted my attention. One
was about thirty. tall. dark, square faced;
the other was possibly nearly twice that
age, little white haired man, who looked
as IL his health was falling. What caught
my attention chiefly was tEat he seemed
to be in such a curious state oi nervous
ness; watching HIM gave one the jumps.
At last his companion commented on If
they were sitting sideways TO me. so that
] could see both their faces.
III were you. Esutton. should take
something for It,"
.-Ah. Walker, wish 1 could take some
thing for it; but-wno san minister to a
mind diseased? Mandragora would have
10 effect on me-"
An unpleasant look came upon the 9TH
er's face as he said:
Il wish you wouldn't talk such non
sense. What do you suppose is the good
of it?'
For one thing, am nearer the grave
than you are; perhaps that's why I'm SO
rluch more disposed than you to think
of what's beyond IL. never thought that
/ should go to the Judgment Seat with
such crime TO answer for"
IF you don't stop talking like that. TAX
ing up that pose. you and will quarrel" :"
I'm not afraid OF that, walker; I'm
inclined to wish that you and had quar-
relied before. Rather Dartmoor with
Young than torment with you.'
Hutton, can't think what's come to
you. You'll worry yourself into actual
illness il you don't look out
I'm a sick man already-sick unto
death"
.'of course. il it pleases you to feel
like that I can't help it, can I? Only let
me give you a tip. You played trick
on George Young; don't you try to play a
second on me. 1t won't benefit you to go
to the Judgment Seat with two crimes
to answer for"
That's true. Don't know it?, I'd
have made a clean breast of things be-
fore this il were the only one who would
suffer-"
The younger man regarded his compan-
ion fixedly, a savage something coming
into the expression on his face
Hutton. We did this thing together,
but the first Suggestion came from you.
If thought that because of any sophis-
ticaI nonsense. or because your digestion
was out Of order, You were meditating
putting me where We put him. I'm not
sure that 1 wouldn't kill you"
Il wish you would kill me. Tom"
His sincerity seemed to impress his
younger companion. who looked at him as
if seeking words with which to answer;
then, as IL finding none, he summoned the
waiter, paid their joint bill and rose from
his chair.
They went out. They had got through
their lunch in a very few minutes. Since
their entry had barely touched mine. I
had, before 1 knew it, become a conf
dante in a tragedy in circumstances
which had deprived me of the little ap-
petite I had had.
For days afterward / kept asking my
self what was the nature of the tragedy
which made that old gentleman so willing
that his companion should kill him.
TO a seaside town, which / will call East
hampton. believed it to be an obscure
hamlet. until on getting there found it
impossible to rent bed and sitting-room,
either for love or money. When had
received the same answer for about the
twentieth time, asked the fy-man. who
was taking me from one likely house to
another, if there was still another he
could think Of
Il can't say, miss, that there is-at
least, there is a cottage in the fields about
half a mile along the shore in which you
might find accommodation; but / can't
say that know much in its favor
I told him to drive me to that cottage.
1t turned out to have Just the accommo-
dation was looking for, and to be quite
charming cottage in itself. Then I
liked the landlady; she was quite a pretty
woman, possibly not more than twenty
six years old. She told me she had one
child. girl Of six. and kept no servant,
but did all the work herself.
was never in more comfortable quar-
ters. And my landlady was a most
charming person; no make-believe lady,
but a very real one. She told me that her
name was Mrs. Vinton. and that she was
a widow; her husband had been dead
three years. Since she was practically
my sole companion, I saw a good deal Of
her.
I never met a woman who had a finer
gift of silence She would sit for hours
and say nothing. What cause she had
for silence could not tell.
sn
room to change my blouse for dinner, the
with her small child was wide open. She
was putting the maid to bed. The child.
kneeling at her mothers knee, was about
TO say her prayers, AMI the mother. bend
ing over, said to her:
Il want you, Nellie, to pray for papa
tonight very specially indeed; it's his
birthday"
Tears fell from her eyes on to the child's
fair hair. had left my walking shoes
and was moving very quietly:
I suppose that was why she had not
heard me come.
The very next day something else oc-
l made another intrusion on her
protest, quite unwillingly.
Z was when ] was passing the kitchen
Mich. like the bedroom door on
the previous evening. was wide open. II
could not help seeing that Mrs. vinton
wcc on her knees beside the kitchen table,
that she had n photograph in her hands,
that tears were streaming down her
cheeks. and that her lips were forming
words.
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