Atlanta tri-weekly journal. [volume] (Atlanta, Ga.) 1920-19??, 1923-03-06
THE BREAKING POINT
BY MARY ROBERTS RINEHART

but not until now had he realized what that
would mean; his recognition by people he
could not remember, the questions he could
not answer.
He knew the letter to David from begin
ming to end but he got it out and read it
again. Who was this Bassett, and what
mischief was he up to? Why should he him.
self go out of town quickly and the warning
burned? Who was G? And why wouldn't
the simplest thing be to locate this Bassett
himself?
The more he considered that, the more
obvious 1t seemed as a solution provided, OF
course, he could locate the man. Whether
Bassett were friendly or inimical, the fact re-
manned that he knew or was finding out
something concerning himself which David
was keeping from him.
He was relieved, when he went down to
the desk to find that his man was registered
there, although the clerk reported him out
of town. But the very fact that only few
hours or days separated him from a solu-
ton of the mystery heartened him.
He ate his dinner alone, unnoticed, and
after dinner in the writing room, with its
mission furniture and it's travelling men copy.
ing orders, he wrote letter to Elizabeth.
With that off his mind and the need or
exercise after the trip insistent, he put on
his hat and wandered out into the town.
The main street was crowded; moving pic
ture theaters were summoning their eve-
ming audiences with bright lights and COLI
ored posters, and automobiles lined the curbsN
But here and there Italian with braids
and Stetson hat, a cow-puncher from
a ranch, in boots and spurs, reminded him
that after all this was the west, the horse and
cattle country 1t was still twilight and
when he had left the main street behind him
he began to have a sense of the familiar.
Surely he had stood here before, had seen
| the courthouse on it's low hill, the row OF
| frame houses in small gardens, just across
| the street.
1t seemed infinitely long ago, but very
real He even remembered dimly open
place at the other side Of the building where
the ranchmen tied their horses. To test
himself he walked around. Yes, it was there,
but no horses stood there now, heads droop-
ing, bride reins thrown losoely over the rail-
| Only muddy automobile, without lights,
and a dog on guard beside it, stirred some
memories. .tt..
He could not connect himself with the
building, but viewed from this angle he saw
the street something connected with his
| father, and after time he got what it was.
| He was riding down the street at night
| on a small horse, and his father was beside
him on tall one. He looked up at his IA
Their and he seemed very large. The largest
| man in the world. And the most important.
| Bassett had not returned in the morning,
and he found himself with a day on his
! hands. He decided to try the experiment
OF visiting the Livingstone ranch, or at least
| of viewing it from safe distance, with the
I hope of reception of last nights experience.
OF all his childish memories the ranchhouse,
next to his father, was most distinct. When
he had tried at various times to analyze what
| things he recalled, he had found that what
| they lacked Of normal memory was connec-
| ton. They stood out, like pictures, each
| complete in itself, brief and having no ap-
parent relation to what had gone or what
| came after. u.s.
But the ranchhouse had been different.
The pictures were always superimposed on
! it, it was their background He was stand
ing on the mountain looking down at it, and
/ his father was pointing to it; the tutor, who
was afraid of horses sitting at a big table in
| a woodceiled and wood-panelled room.
| When, much later, Dick was able calmly
| to review that day, he found his recollection
| of it confused by the events that followed,
| but one thing stood out as clearly as his later
| knowledge Of the almost incredible fact that
| for one entire day and for the evening OF
another, he had openly appeared in Norado
and had not been recognized. That fact was
his discovery that the Livingstone ranch
| house had no place in his memory whatever.
He hired car and>a driver, driver who
asserted that this the old Livingstone
| ranch house. And it bore no resemblance
not the faintest to the building he remem-
| bered. 1t did not lie where it should have
! lain. The mountains were too far behind 1T.
! It was not the house. The fields were not
the proper fields. 1t was wrong, all wrongs
(To Be Continued in the Next lssue'l
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