The Ocala evening star. [volume] (Ocala, Fla.) 1895-1943, 1922-08-10
CHAPTER I.

serted. except Tor ttODSEL f8lrCH1l0,
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 1t
had been Robert Fairchild's promise
that he would not suffer In heart for
one who had IOnged to go into a peace
for which he had waited, seemingly In
Eain. 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 sun
set after sunset, voicing the vain hope
that the cleaning might bring the twi-
light of his own existence-a silent
man except for this. rarely speaking of
the past, never giving to the son who
worked for him, cared for him, wor-
SHIPPED him, the slightest inkling of
what might have happened in the dim
days of the long ago to transform him
into beaten thing, longing for the
final surcease. And when the end
came. it found him in readiness, wait
ing in the big armchair by the win
dows. Even now, a book lay on the
frayed carpeting of the olds room,
where 1t had fallen from relaxing fin
gers, Robert Fairchild picked it up,
and with a sigh restored it 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 fmpa-
tient wait for death? The soH 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, a long conference with his
mother behind closed doors, while he,
in childlike curiosity, waited without,
seeking in vain to catch some expla-
nation. Then 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 a 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.
81 wrote something to you, Boy, q
day or so ago." he had said. THAT
little illness I had prompted me to
do 1t. II 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,
know-that you'll not do it until after
I'm gone"
Now Thornton Fairchild was gone
But a 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 Unmatched the panelet
door. A moment more and the hol
lowed history had given up its trust
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 IA
theirs bedroom.
There he hesitated before the little
iron safe in the corner, summonine
the courage to unlock the doors Of Q
dead mans past.
The safe had not been opened In
years; that was evident from tht
creaking of the plungers as they fell
the gummy resistance of the knob al
Fairchild turned 1t in accordance will
the directions on the paper. Finally
a great wrench and the bolt wa!
drawn grudgingly back; a strong pull
and the safe opened
Fairchild crouched for a moment
! staring, before he reached for thu
thinner of two envelopes which la!
| before him. A moment later h
| Strengthened and turned toward tn
| light. A crinkling of paper, a quick
| drawni sigh between clenched teeth
| It was q letter; his strange quiet
/ hunted-appearing father was talkin,
/ to him through the medium of ink an,
/ paper, after death. He read:
/ MY Son:
! Before ! begin this letter to you
must ask that you take no actor
whatever until you have seen my al
torney-he will be yours from now or
! / have never mentioned him to yo1
| before; it was not necessary an
would only have brought you curiosit
which could not have satisfied. Blu
/ now. am afraid the doors must b
4 unlocked I am gone. You are young
\ you have been faithful son and 20
/ are deserving of every good forum
that may possibly come 10 you. | an
4 praying that the years have made 6
Il difference, and that Fortune may
4 smile upon you as she frowned on me
I Certainly, she can injure me no longer
My race is run; l am beyond earthly
! fortunes.
Therefore, when you have finished
| with this, take the deeds inclosed In
the larger envelope and go to st
Louis. There. look up Henry f. Beam
ish, attorney-ar-law. in the Princess
building. He win explain them TO you
/ Beyond this, / fear, there is little
that can aid you. I cannot find the
| strength, now that l face it, TO tel
1 NON rrt,af 4yor NOV And ~ x-o,T fallox