Evening times-Republican. [volume] (Marshalltown, Iowa) 1890-1923, 1920-10-29

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heavy mustache, and little goatee
or imperial He shas an old fashion
ed look, due principally to the way
he wears his hair, that is brushed
forward OF his ears In the manner
popular fifty years ago. He has
very courteous manners and is CIV
en- to rather bookish, literary turns
Of speech"
The remnants of Clara Cleaver's
courage oozed away. She sagged
down in her chair white and shaken.
That is the man,, she whispered
"What are you going to do with me-"
'.Why does he send you all this
money!" asked Jack.
II don't know" she meekly replied.
well. I'll give you my guess. It
is to secure your house rs base for
the young birds of prey that hunt
in society. These are the spies that
furnish him the information about
rich people necessary to his black
mailing business
1T can't be as bad as all that!"
she murmured with weak horror.
How else do you explain George
Thatcher and Grace Marsden-and
Miriam"
You are not sure OF what you
say"
You know in your heart it is true.
AS to Miriam, | am sure. Mr.. Clyde
left us detailed account OF how she
tried to spy on him, and faithful
description of her. Ever notice the
mole on her right forefinger9'
She shock her head. "Oh, therell
be a horrible public scandal" she
walled fretfully 'I'll be disgraced
forevev.--tho I have done nothing
Except take his money Jack put
in dryly.
.How did know? Where am l to
hide my head now. oh. wish I'd
never laid eyes on you'll"
Jack took new tack. well, / see
II can expect no help from you" he
said. making as II to go.
''Wait!" she said quickly. Don't
leave me! I shall go out OF my mind
IL I'm left alone. II tell you every
thing know, will you promise to
save me from public disgrace?"
"lll do my best"
"Sit down. I'll have to go back to
the beginning. It's long story
CHAPTER XIX
My father was famous doctor
here in New York. Mrs. Cleayer be-
gan. He was what you call u self
made man; he had risen from OBJ
security and pulled my mother up
with him. ! was their on'J child.
When was growing up my father
was making princely income, and
we lived like millionaires. The best
people In New York were among his
patients, and he went everywhere.
II married at twenty-five usual
fashionable marriage. Mr.. Cleaver
was the last Of fine old family of
wealth and position, and l was con-
sidered to have done well for myself.
But l loved him in needless, un-
thinking sort of way. He was young
like myself and extremely good -look-'
ing.
my first real experience of life
came with the death of my father,
four years after my marriage. 1t was
discovered that he had lived up to
every cent of his great income. He
left nothing bit debts and an art
collection. The proceeds of that
went to purchase my mother mod
est annuity, Even that was wasted,
for she lived less than q year after
my father.
11F =, ~ fJ,a
world to turn to but my husband.
The tragedy Of self-made people is
that they have no lifelong friends.
My husband was good to me In his
way; we got along together well
enough, but in his disappointment
and chagrfn at the disclosure of my
fathers affairs, received my first
suspicion that all was not well with
our own.
"But I closed my eyes to it. and
we continued to live as before, deny
ing ourselves nothing. 1t was the
only way ! knew how to live. We
had our big houses In town and in
the country, a mob of servants, au-
tomobiles, horses. knew nothing
about business and my husband new
er spoke Of 1t. One thing that help
ed to ease my mind was the fact we
were never bothered by creditors as
knew some of my friends were. My
husband paid up everything on the
nail. It was point Of pride with
him.
when he had spent his last dollar
literally his last, he shot himself.
well, there I was. Mr.. Cleaver
had no near relatives. His cousins
had always frowned on our extrava-
gance, and could expect no aid
from them. AS for my so-called
friends, at the first hint Of disaster
they began to melt away 1 was so
helpless I didn't even know how to
close up my great house. I couldn't
summon resolution enough to dis