The Richmond palladium and sun-telegram. [volume] (Richmond, Ind.) 1907-1939, 1919-10-14

the news that the great lawyer, Mr..
Tulkinghorn, the trusted solicitor or
nobility, the impregnable guardian of
family condolences, had been found by
terrified servants in his chamber IN
Lincoln's Inn Fields lying face down
ward on the floor, shot through the
heart.
Oh, with what fear l heard this. If
but then came thenewspaper report
that Mr.. George, a fine and hearty
ex-soldier, who had been heard to
threaten Mr.. Tulkinghorn, because the
lawyer had squeezed him financially,
and who had been seen at Lincoln's
Inn Fields on the night of the muir
der. had been arrested charged with
the crime But why? The mystery
was not solved, it seemed. Hr. Buck
ct, I found, was still on the trail of
someone. Then one day Mr.. Bucket
told my Lord that it was not the sol
der who had killed Mr.. TulkinghOrn,
but a woman. And he went on with
all the story of my mothers early
disgrace with Captain Hawdon, and
how Mr.. Tulkinghorn had discovered
how my lady had ben sen going out
the night of the tragedy, and how
a yelled woman had been noticed
near the lawyers rooms at the same
time. 1T is my duty to tell you this
said the detective, to prepare you
for the revelation l am about TO make.
Others know of it; you must" Then
in was brought Hortense, my lady's
discharged French maid (who hated
my lady and hated Mr.. Tulkinghorn
still more because he had refused TO
pay her hush money on account OF
the masquerading scene before joel,
and AIr. Bucket proved her guilty OF
the murder and arrested her on the
spot But they left my Lord stricken
with paralysis, his proud figure beat
en- to the earth.
Next day I heard that my poor
mother had fled the great London
mansion, leaving a letter for Sir Lei
cester confessing her youthful shame,
but protesting her innocence of the
murder. Full forgiveness; find
wrote the baronet on slate for Mr..
Bucket.
Then began the strangest chase that
was ever known. Bucket came for
me, and we left the inspectors office
in London before 2 o'clock of the
morning in a barouche with postiliO
and post horses, Mr.. Bucket seated on
the box. A wild, uncanny ride it was,
down by the dark river, over the Lon
don bridges, crossing and recrOssing
the dark river; out of the city streets
into the country white with snow. On
and on with little rest for two days
and more, toiling through the sleety,
sloppy roads; snatching a bit of rest
here and there; suddenly back to
great roaring London. hot on the scent
now, fetching up on foot at last at the
grim gate Of the terrible pauperS
graveyard where my father was bur
led. And there on the steps, with one
arm creeping around bar Of the
gate, as if to embrace, lay my mother
cold and dead
But sunshine came again, as it al
ways comes to the young and hopeful.
My dear guardian brought it the soon
er. had promised him that | would
be mistress OF bleak house some day.
He had been kind: l was grateful.
I thought Allan WOodcOurt. who had
been absent from England, had grown
away from me. Returning, he had
spoken too late All, dear guardian,
how did you know, and why did you
take me down into Yorkshire so soon
to show me a pretty, rustic dolls
house of a cottage on preteXt of get
ting my opinion of it as a residence
for Dr. WoOdcourt, who was TO settle
in those parts? And Bleak House,"
Yes, that was the name over the cot
tage door. And on that beautiful day,
you, my generous, Selt-sacrlf!clnE
guardian, gave it to me and me to
Allan Woodcourt. Thus l was made
the happy mistress OF Bleak House
Happy in the knowledge that the
widowed Ada with her boy was to
live at the older Bleak House always
Happy TO learn at last that JarndyCe
and Jarndyce was devoured by its
own costs and that its curse was
laid torevermore.
Copyright 1919, by the Post Publish
ing Company, CIhe Boston PosD.
Copyright in the United Kingdom, the
Dominions, its Colonies and dependen
cies. under the copyright act, by the
Post Publishing Co. Boston, Mass,
u. S. A All rights reserved.
published by special arrangement
with the Mcclure Newspaper Syndl-
cate. All rights reserveoJ
"Pudd'nhead Wilson," by Mark Twain,
as condensed by John kerdrick
Bangs, will be printed tomorrow.