The Ely miner. [volume] (Ely, Minn.) 1895-1986, 1937-02-25
THURSDAY-Continued

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"I'm afraid, Doctor Marden,"
Patrick said his last word, 81 shall
have to ask you not to leave the
Head until give you permission.
81 give you my word I shall not
leave it."
''Well, Mary" Patrick said in a
weary tone. "It all makes sense.
Here we have a perfect design
Torriano first, Margaret next, then
Marden. No one of them seems
to have told anything but the truth.
They're all dying to- tell the truth.
If somebody would only lie, maybe
] could get the answer. Of course
Margaret said she thought she
heard something stirring in the
bushes. Marden apparently noticed
nothing like that. Now there may
have been another person involved
or any number. For that matter,
Margaret Fairweather may have
returned and-Oh, I don't know
who killed Ace Blake. I'm no
nearer knowing than was Satur-
day. Who's that?"
Vaguely in the back of my mind
I had heard Doctor Marden drive
off. In the back of my mind l
heard a second motor turn into the
drive. 1t stopped. Presently light,
swift step came through the hall
and into the living room-a light,
swift step-strangely stiffened by
determination.
'I've come back to tell you the
rest of my story, Mr.. O'Brien, "
said Myron Marden. 81 haven't told
you all of it yet!''
Involuntarily we all three sat
down.
81 will begin it by telling you"
Doctor Marden took up the story
in the quietest voice had ever
heard from him, something that
will, think, come as a great sur
prise to you" He paused as though
to summon his strength for the
revelation. "Ace Blake is the IA
Their of my granddaughter Caro-
Prentiss."
He paused again as though for a
question or comment from us.
But neither Patrick nor I spoke
We did not stir. His statement had
worked too great paralysis for
us either to speak or move.
''I'n have to go back of course to
tell you how it came about. / will
begin with my own marriage. My
wife was a New York woman.
When l met her, about forty years
ago, she was a widow. She had
been widowed twice and both times
under tragic conditions. Her first
husband, Theodore Prentiss, also a
New Yorker, was thrown from his
horse a month after their marriage.
He died instantly. She became the
mother of his posthumous child-a
boy, Theodore Prentiss. Five years
later, she married again-Addison
Dacre. He too was New Yorker.
While they were travelling in
France, he died in Paris of a case
of pneumonia. She was pregnant
at the time and the shock brought
on the premature birth of a little
girl who was to be named Eleanor
Dacre. I was established as a
physician in Paris and was called
in on the case. This was immedi-
ately after the funeral-I never met
Addison Dacre.
Mrs. Dacre was a beautiful
woman-a very lovely woman. ]
felt that if the child died, her very
reason would 60. / threw myself
heart and soul into saving that pre-
mature little waif-and I did save
her. I took care of her for months.
OF course that constant attendance
brought Mrs. Dacre and me very
close. By the time Eleanor was a
year old, we realized that life
meant nothing to either of us with
out the other Six months later we
were married quietly in Paris. My
practice was there and we have
lived in Paris, except for our holi-
days, ever since. My wife died
two years ago and, after I had a
little recovered from my grief, !
decided to return to America. But
] am running ahead of my story.
I must go back to Eleanor.
'There could not possibly ever
have lived a more lovely child than
Eleanor. And when I use the word
lovely I use it advisedly. She
was lovely in face and figure; love
ly in heart and spirit. l adored
her.
ga beautiful child, Eleanor grew
to be a beautiful woman. I do not
think that this is prejudice. Every
where, her appearance made SEN
sation. That was not entirely due
to her beauty perhaps. It was part
ly her coloring. It was the most
delicate blonde I have ever seen
ethereal. Often Mrs. Marden and
I discussed the proper adjective to
apply to Eleanor. She was not an
gelic nor seraphic nor cherubic.
She was too tall to be fairy-like.
She was sprite-ike. Her hair was
the palest gold, her features what
we used to call mignonne, her eyes
deeply violet.
''The French always stared at
her and in Spain and Italy she Gre
Sted such a sensation that she did
not like to go out on the street
alone. She had courage enough,
but she hated the little incidents
which occurred here and there
along the way. I will not say that
Eleanor was an angel, although
she was kind of modern angel.
She was too vigorous to suggest
that sort of thing. But she was
absolutely honest. She was sweet.
She was kind. We worshiped her
my wife and L.
Doctor Marden came to full
stop. He put his hand over his
eyes and sank back into the past.