The Holbrook news., 1922-09-22
CHAPTER |.

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 with It's rickety, old-fashioned furni- turNand It's memories-was now de- serted. except for Robert Fairchild. and he was deserted within it. wan dering from room to room staring at familiar objects with the unfamiliar gaze of one whose vision suddenly has been warped by the visitation of death and the sense of loneliness that . 1t brings
 Loneliness. rather than grief, for it had been Robert Fairchild's promise that he would not suffer in heart for one who had longed to go into a peace for which he had waited. seemingly in vain. Year after year. Thornton Fair child had sat in the big armchair by the windows. watching the days grow old and fade into night. studying sum- set after sunset. vOicing the vain hope that the gloaming might bring the twi- light of his own eNistence-a silent man except for this, rarely speaking of the past, never giving to the son who worked for him. cared for him, wor- shiped him. the slightest inkling of what might have happened in the dim days of the long ago to transform him into a beaten thing. longing for the final surcease. And when the end came. 1t found him in readiness, wait ing in the big armchair by the win hdvrS EUpn o hnnt- 1ax- ha frayed carpeting of the old room. where it had fallen from relaxing fin gers. Robert Fairchild picked it up, and with a sigh restored 1t to the grim, fumed oak case. His days of petty sacrifices that his father might while away the weary hours with reading were over.
 What had been the past? Why the silence? Why the patient. yet impa- tient wait for death? The son did not know. In all his memories was only one faint picture, painted years be fore in babyhOod: the return of his father from some place, he knew not where, long conference with his mother behind closed doors. while he, in childlike curiosity. waited without, seeking in vain to catch some expla- nation. Then a sad-faced woman who cried at night when the house was still, who faded and who died. That was all. The picture carried no ex- plantation.
 And now Robert Fairchild stood on the threshold of something he almost feared to learn. Once. on black, stormy night. they had sat together, father and son before the fire. silent for hours. Then the hand of the white-haired man had reached out ward and rested for a moment on the young mans knee.
 'I wrote something to you, Boy, a day or so ago." he had said. That little illness I had prompted me to do it. I-I thought it was only fair to you. After I'm gone. look in the safe You'll find the combination on a piece of paper hidden in a hole cut In that old European history in the bookcase. I have your promise, I tnow-that you'll not do 1t until after I'm gone
 Now Thornton Fairchild was gone. But message had remained behind; one which the patient lips evidently had feared to utter during life The heart of the son began to pound, slow and hard as, with the memory of that conversation. he turned toward the bookcase and unlatched the paneled door, A moment more and the hOl- lowed history had given up it's trust. a bit of paper scratched with numbers. Robert Fairchild turned toward the stairs and the small room on the sec , ond floor which had served as his fa- ther's bedroom.
 There he hesitatod before the little iron safe in the corner, summOning the courage to unlock the doors of dead mans past.
 The safe had not been opened in years: that was evident from the ,rs..k king "f fhe Dlungers as they fell,