The Greenville journal. [volume] (Greenville, Ohio) 1850-1918, 1916-01-13
PROLOGUE.

SnAfp ana clear ABOVE tue CRASH Ol
he orchestra and the murmured
voices Of the dancers, the revolver
shot rang out. The music died in
mid-air, its pulsating throbs ebbing
away into a slow, pathetic wall that
ended almost in human sob. With
pale faces and trembling limbs the
dancers stopped where the music had
left them; some with arms upraised;
some with one foot in the air.
1t was a tense moment; a moment
fraught with pregnant portent.
All the wealth and society of the
town was at the Van Lind residence
that night. Mrs. Van Lind, leader in
her set and fashions devotee, was CIV
ing a ball for the relief of the Bel
CLANS. All the music had a patriotic
Tilt; all the guests carried tiny Ameri-
can flags, and the prettiest girl in
town, dressed as Miss Columbia, was
leading the dance. Joy reigned un-
confined.
And then the shot.
The sound seemed to come from
chamber to the right of the ballroom,
One, more bold than the rest, strode
towards the door and threw aside the
heavy hangings. And the tableau that
was there revealed offered food for
several hundred late supper discus
sions and gave the busy gossips of So
ciety many dainty morsel.
The room was, strictly speaking, a
den, richly furnished and not very
large. Across a table in the center,
when the curtain was so rudely
brushed aside, sprawled the inert body
of Edgar Clay, society leader, business
man, good sport, hard drinker, and the
husband of Isabel Clay, prettiest but
terfiy of them all. Standing over him
in a protecting attitude, the smoking
revolver still in his hand, was the bus
mess partner and father-in-law, Rus
sci Irwin. Hate cleaned from pair
of narrowed eyes; beady, steady eyes
that never wavered from those of
Horace Stone, attorney, who, pale as
death, stared back at Irwin from
across the table. At Stones feet lay
a shattered decanteT, the contents of
which ran over the rich rug in tiny
rivulets, strongly suggesting blood to
the excited minds of the eager spec
tators. But Stone was grasping his
right hand with his left, and the tickle
Of red that oozed between his fingers
told only too plainly where the bullet
had found its mark.
"Oh, Edgar, Edgar are you dead?"
From the surge Of figures at the
door, one fair form detached itself and
hurled its length across the limp and
sagging body of Clay on the table
With trembling hands she raised his
head, and with choking sobs planted a
fearful kiss on his unresponsive lips.
Anguish and relief and disgust strug-
gled for the mastery of her features
as she read the answer to her question
in the kiss. Clay was not dead. He
had yielded again to habit that was
stronger than himself.
"And may I ask the meaning of this
ill-bred Disturbance"
Mrs. Van Lind was speaking and the
tone was cold, incisive, uncompromis-
ing.
Irwin nodded grimly towards
Stone. And those who watched him
closely noted that he held his weapon
in firmer grip.
Haughtily the hostess turned her
icy, questioning stare in the wounded
mans direction.
For a moment he hesitated. Then
his eyes wavered under the steady
gaze of Irwin, and he answered sui
Ienly:
1T was an accident"
Avoiding the glances of those who
would have questioned him; ignoring
the advances of those who offered
sympathy, Stone elbowed his way
through the excited throng at the der
door and left the house. And so the
incident was ended. But it is not with
the incident so much, as with the
happenings which lead up to it that
our story has to do
|.
Folly was a constant guest at the
home of Edgar Clay and his pretty
wife, Isabelle. Folly was the boor
companion of this young society cou
pie. Reared in luxury and knowing nc
restraint except that imposed by theil
own desires they had gone the pace
that has but one ending; had Travelled
along the road that leads but to dis
aster-disaster that is the more com
plete the longer it is delayed. That
they drifted farther and farther apart
was but natural for Folly was always
there to see that both persisted in the
willful pursuit of individual enjoyment
And so the Saturday morning or
which our story opens, found then
dangerously near to the parting O.
the ways.
Clay, young, good looking, but witt
the marks of dissipation already
showing on his otherwise boyish fea
lures, was in no mood for trifing tina
morning. The cares of business
weighed heavily upon him. junior
member of the real estate firm of 1r
win G Clay, he realized that the house
of which his father-in-law, Russell Ir
win, was head, faced financial ruin be
cause of his extravagances and reck
lessness. The throbbing in his tenn
pies and the racking reminders Of las
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