Evening star., 1917-09-09
BY Arthur Somers Roche
Mystery Novel, the Author of Loot

man without capital has is of being a
salaried employe. With capital-but not
woman's! If he could recover the
money embeZzled by Carey Haig and
oh well, what was the use. Spilled
milk!
At the Waldorf he stopped in for
cocktail. 1t was while drinking it slow
ly that he became conscious that he was
being followed. He looked about him,
with seeming carelessness but with
eyes that took in everything. Yet he
could see no one who seemed at all out
of place here, no one whose manner was
furtive or sinking.
Waring paid his check at the desk
and walked out into 34th street. He
tried to shake off the sensation that had
made him scrutinize the faces about
him a the bar, but it would not be
shaken off
Once. in Uganda. a panther had
trailed Waring when he was separated
from his native attendants. Something
instructive. surviving over the centur-
les from the days of ancestral barbar-
ism. had warned Waring to be on his
guard then. 1t had not been a matter
of scent or hearing or seeing. 1t had
been something beyond any of the five
senses that had saved his life In the
Uganda jungle. And that same super
senses that had saved his life in the
jungle was being followed.
He turned toward the avenue and
walked south. continuing on his way
to his apartment Why should any one
follow him? If the mysterious Berg
son. who had obtained Warnings fortune
from the defaulting, self slain Carey
Haig. knew of Warnings feeble efforts
to locate him. he would also know
Warnings address He would not both
er to trace him there, when the tele
phone book or ordinary directory would
furnish the required information.
He was enmeshed in none of what
the French euphemistically term af
faires. Waring was no saint, but he
was clean. No jealous husband, seek
ing divorce evidence. There was
nasty weekly in town that made
practice of printing innuendo, but even
if the reporter of that unclean sheet
had seen him escorting Mrs. Willy Sim
sa ba ugh home-ridiculous The repor
ter would know Philip Waring by sight
or he wouldn't hold his job overnight.
This was not conceit; the Warnings had
been prominent socially in Manhattan
since the days of old Jan Worringe, the
founder of the ia mily in New York
Then. inasmuch as there was no
reason for any ones following, no one
could be following. SO Waring tried
to believe as he turned the corner into
2Sth street. Nevertheless, the feeling
persisted, and as he entered his ground
floor apartment he glanced rapidly over
mis- shoulder. No one was in sight.
Still, when he stepped across the
threshold and closed the door behind
him he did not lock it, Instead; he
stood close to it, his ear to the crack.
1t was an old fashioned apartment
house. only four stories tall. devoted,
for the most part. to artists and
writer's. There was no elevator. And
is it was a warm spring day. the door
leading from the vestibule into the
hall was swung wide. AS he listened.
Waring heard the sound of feet on the
marble Tagging of the vestibule.
The steps ceased. Waring opened his
door the least bit and glanced through.
Some one was bending over. staring a
the name cards above the letter boxes.
There was something vaguely familiar
about the man-also something strange;
his apparel, which was French in cut.