The Glenwood post., 1916-02-05
The lie
BY cLARIssA MAcKIE.

The long studio was dim with the
grayness of a wet afternoon. Outside
the windows the November rain fell
steadily. The man paced the room
restlessly. lighting one cigarette after
another, only to toss each one un-
smoked into the crate. He was tall
and gaunt, with prematurely gray hair
and a haggard face in which burned
deep-set blue eyes.
The woman sitting beside the fire
watched him with grave, injurious
eyes. The freight shone on her fold
ed white hands and touched brilliant
ring into hot flame. Sometimes the
same flame burned in her eyes.
The man, accustomed to her quiet
presence, had forgotten her.
Once he passed beside the great oak
table and looked at a large package
stamped with many foreign labels and
sealed with a curious splash Of green
wax.
ut is Temples private seal, and
yet" His mutter died into silence.
And yet-Jim Temple had been dead
for ten years and the seal with its
owner was lying in the muddy depths
Of the Yangtze river.
why should this package come to
me out of China-now?" he questioned
himself as he resumed his restless
tramping to and fro.
What horrible night that had been!
Black and storm driven, and the wind
had whined around the Tapping sails
of the junk
Suddenly he went to the table,
switched on the electrolier and sat
down before the package. His jaw
was set grimly and bitter smile edged
his lips.
For a while there was no sound
within the room save the twanging
Of several strings and the rustic Of
papers.
At last box and wrappings were cast
aside and there was revealed before
him the perfect model of q Chinese
pleasure junk-the replica of that 9TH
er craft on the Yangtse river.
How perfect 1t was in every detail!
What cunning artisan had contrived
the miniature craft with its hull Of
fine bamboo, its awnings of gauze, its
sails of silk, and in its tiny cabin were
carved and inlaid tables and lockers
And in the stern, behind carved doors,
was little shrine containing an idol
before which stood four ivory votive
candles. There was a pervading smell
of incense and there was an acrid
tang of opium.
As one watches a dim shadow pic
ture, the man crouched in his chair
and stared with Mortified eyes at the
junk.
The length Of the table appeared to
be the turgid yellow stream which is
China's greatest waterway. The junk
seemed to rock on its bosom and,
was not the wind whining? And
there was the beat of rain-and in the
shadows beyond the circle of light lay
those dim Asiatic shores.
The helmsman was tall, wicked
looking Chinaman, and the group of
sailors huddled in the bow; how their
shrill, staccato voices pierced the
storm! That was the captain, that
f1eshly scoundrel with the inscrutable
face and the heart of devil. He re-
membered the captain.
And the two other men were for
eigners. He noted without surprise
that one was Jim Temple, the other
was himself
The two white men on the mats
were quarreling over a woman's pic
ture. Without looking now he knew
1t was the portrait of the girl he after
ward married. They were quarreling,
and finally the shorter Of the two, clad
in gray, leaped at the throat of the
other and they fought viciously until
at last the little man went over the
side and the beat Of rain on the sky
light drowned his cries.
The Yangtze was roaring delight
over another victim.
The tall man in white (himself) re-
turned to the mats and threw himself
upon his face and lay quiet.
The captain smiled evilly at the
helmsman and shrugged his fat shoul-
ders.
How the river roared!
Suddenly the storm paused. Tho
wind stilled and the rain ceased its
drumming on the skylight.
The man lifted his head and brushed
his hand across his eyes.
He sighed brokenly and for the first
time he looked beyond the shadows
and saw the woman sitting there
watching him.
what is the matter, dear?' she
asked quietly.
The question broke his reeling
senses to the edge Of an abysmal
fear.
"You-here-now?" he whispered.
He thought that ne shouted the ques.
ton.