The
JOHN STRANGEWEY FEELS THE LURE OF LOVELY W0M
AN AND IS UNABLE TO BREAK THE SPELL
LOUISE HAS WOVEN
Synopsis. On a trip through the English Cumberland country the
breakdown of her automobile forces Louise Maurel, a famous London
actress, to spend the night at the farm home of John and Stephen
Strangewey. At dinner Louise discovers that the brothers are woman
hating recluses. Next morning she discovers that John, the younger
brother, has recently come Into a large fortune. In company with him
she explores the farm and is disturbed by evidence of his rigid moral
principles. He learns she is a friend of the prince of Sayre, a rich
and disreputable neighbor. Three months later, unable to shake off
the girl's memory, 'John goes to London.
" CHAPTER V (Continued.)
"You aren't letting your thoughts
dwell upon that woman?"
"I have thought about her some
times," John answered, almost defiant
ly. "What's the harm? I'm still here,
am I not?"
Stephen crossed the room. From the
drawer of the old mahogany sideboard
he produced an illustrated paper. He
turned back the frontispiece fiercely
and held it up.
"Do you see that, John?"
"I've seen It already."
Stephen threw the paper upon the
table.
"She's going to act In another of
those confounded French plays," he
said; "translations with all the wit
taken out and all the vulgarity left
in."
"We knew nothing of her art," John
declared coldly. "We shouldn't under
stand it, even if we saw her act. There
fore it isn't right for us to judge her.
The world has found her a great ac
tress. She is not responsible for the
plays she acts in."
Stephen turned away and lit Ms
pipe anew. He smoked for a minute or
two furiously. His thick eyebrows
came closer and closer together. He
seemed to be turning some thought
over in his mind.
"John," he asked, "is it this cursed
money that is making you restless?"
"I never think of it except when
someone comes begging. I promised a
thousand pounds to the infirmary to
day.' "Then what's wrong with you?"
John stretched himself out, a splen
did figure of healthy manhood. His
cheeks were sun-tanned, his eyes clear
and bright.
"The matter? There's nothing on
earth the matter with me," he de
clared. "It isn't your health I mean. There
are other things, as you well know.
You do your day's work and you take
your pleasure, and you go through both
as if your feet were on a treadmill."
"Your fancy, Stephen!"
"God grant it! I've had an unwel
come visitor in your absence."
John turned swiftly around.
"A visitor?" he repeated. "Who was
it?"
Stephen glowered at him for a mo
ment. "It was the prince," he said ; "the
prince of Seyre, as he calls himself,
though he has the right to style him
self Master of Raynham. It's only his
foreign blood which makes him choose
what I regard as the lesser title,
Yes,
"You Aren't Letting Your
Thoughts
an?"
Dwell Upon That Worn
he called to ask you to shoot and st
t
sixteenth to the twentieth of
month."
'What answer did you give him?" 'ywrs-i of nl:
'I told him that you were your own I cflottlation
master. You must send word tomor
row." "He Wd not mention the names of
any of l..s otiter guests, I suppose?"
"He mentioned no names at all."
John was silent for a moment. A
bewildering thought had taken hold of
him. Supposing she were to be there?
watching him. read his
HILLMAN
By E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM
thoughts, and for a moment lost con
trol of himself. '
"Were you thinking about that wom
an?" he asked sternly.
"What woman?"
"The woman whom we sheltered
here, the woman whose shameless pic
ture Is on the cover of that book."
John swung round on his heel.
"Stop that, Stephen!" he said men
acingly. "Why should I?" the older man re
torted. "Take up that paper, If you
want to read a sketch of the life of
Louise Maurel. See the play she made
her name In La Gioconda' I"
"What about it?"
Stephen held the paper out to his
brother. John read a few lines and
dashed it Into a corner of the room.
"There's this much about it, John,"
Stephen continued. "The woman played
that part night after night played it
to the life, mind you. She made her
reputation in it. That's the woman
we unknowingly let sleep beneath this
roof! The barn Is the place for her
and her sort !"
John's clenched fists were held firm
ly to his sides. Ills eyes were blazing.
"That's enough, Stephen!" he cried.
"No, it's not enough !" was the fierce
reply." "The truth's been burning in my
heart long enough. It's better out.
You want to find her a guest at Rayn
ham castle, do you? Raynham castle,
where never a decent woman crosses
the threshold ! If she goes there, she
goes WTell?"
An anger that was almost paralyz
ing, a sense of the utter impotence of
words, drove John in silence from the
room. He left the house by the back
door, passed quickly through the or
chard, where the tangled moonlight lay
upon the ground in strange, fantastic
shadows; across the narrow strip of
field, a field now of golden stubble ; up
the hill which looked down upon the
farm buildings and the churchyard.
lie sat grimly down upon a great
bowlder, filled with a hateful sense of
unwreaked passion, yet with a sheer
thankfulness in his heart that he had
escaped the miasma of evil thoughts
which Stephen's words seemed to have
created. The fancy seized him to face
these half-veiled suggestions of his
brother, so far as they concerned
himself and his life during the last
few months.
Stephen was right. This woman who
had dropped from the clouds for those
few brief hours had played strange
havoc with John's thoughts and his
whole outlook upon life. The coming
of harvest, the care of his people, his
sports, his cricket, the early days upon
the grouse moors, had all suddenly
lost their Interest for him. Life had
become a task. The echo of her half
inockiLg, half-challenging words was
always in his ears.
lie sat with his head resting upon
his hands, looking steadfastly across
the valley below. Almost at his feet
lay the little church with its grave
yard, the long line of stacks and barns,
the laborers' cottages, the bailiffs
house, the whole little colony around
which his life seemed centered. The
summer moonlight lay upon the ground
almost like snow. lie could see the
sheaves of wheat standing up in the
most distant of the cornfields. Beyond
was the dark gorge toward which he
had looked so many nights at this
hour.
Across the viaduct there came a
blaze of streaming light, a serpentlike
trail, a faintly heard whistle the Scot
tish express on Its way southward
toward London. His eyes followed it
out of sight. He found himself think-
In ghe passengers who would wake
tly morning in London. He felt
f "j'ldenly acutely conscious of
fa. Was there not something
Jastic in the seclusion which
fe a passion with Stephen,
had its grip, too, upon him
M life, a burying of talents?
to his feet. The half -formed
fof weeks held him now, defl-
ecure. He knew that this pll-
of his to the hilltop, his rapt
of the little panorama
which had become so dear to him, was
in a sense valedictory.
After all, two more months passed
before the end came, and it came then
without a moment's warning. It was
a little past midday when John drove
slowly through the streets of Market
Ketton in his high dogcart, exchanging
salutations right and left with the
tradespeople, with farmers brought
into town by the market, with ac
quaintances of all sorts and condi
tions. More than one young "woman
from the shop windows or the pave
ments ventured to smile at him, and
the few greetings he received from the
wives and daughters of his neighbors
were as gracious as they could possibly
be made. John almost smiled once, in
the act of raising his hat, as he real
ized how completely the whole charm
of the world, for him, seemed to lie In
one woman's eyes.
At the crossways, where he should
have turned to the inn, he paused while
a motorcar passed. It contained a
woman, who was talking to her host.
She was not In the least like Lou
ise, and yet instinctively he knew that
she was of the same world. The per
fection of her white-serge costume, her
The Whistle Sounded. The Adventure
of His Life Had Begun at Last.
hat so smartly worn, the half-insolent
smile, the little gesture with which she
raised her hand something about her
unlocked the floodgates.
Market Ketton had seemed well
enough a few minutes ago. John had
felt a healthy appetite for his midday
meal, and a certain interest concerning
a deal in barley upon which he was
about to engage. And now another
world had him in Its grip. He flicked
the mare with his whip, turned away
from the inn, and galloped up to the
station, keeping pace with the train
whose whistle he had heard. Standing
outside was a local horse dealer of his
acquaintance.
"Take the mare back for me to Peak
Hall, will you, Jenkins, or send one of
your lads?" he begged. "I want to
catch this train."
The man assented with pleasure It
paid to do a kindness for a Strange
wey. John passed through the ticket
office to the platform, where the train
was waiting, threw open the door of
a carriage, and flung himself into a
corner seat. The whistle sounded. The
adventure of his life had begun at last.
CHAPTER VI.
The great French dramatist, dark,
pale-faced and corpulent, stood upon
the extreme edge of the stage, bran- !
dishing his manuscript in his hand. lie
banged the palm of his left hand with
the rolled-up manuscript and looked at
them 8 11 furiously.
"The only success I care for," he
thundered, "is an artistic success!"
"With Miss Maurel playing your
leading part, M. Gralllot," the actor
manager declared, "not to speak of a
company carefully selected to the best
of my judgment, I think you may ven
ture to anticipate even that."
The dramatist bowed hurriedly to
Louise.
"You recall to me a fact," he said i
gallantly, "which almost reconciles me j
to this diabolical travesty of some of
my lines. Proceed, then proceed! I
will be as patient as possible."
The stage manager shouted out some
directions from his box. A gentleman
in faultless morning clothes, who
seemed to have been thoroughly enjoy
ing the interlude, suddenly adopted the
puppetlike walk of a footman. Other
actors, who had been whispering to
gether in the wings, came back to their
places. Louise advanced alone, a little
languidly, to the front of the stage. At
the first sound of her voice M. Grall
lot, nodding his head vigorously, was
soothed.
ner speech was a long one. It
appeared that she had been arraigned
before a company of her relatives, as
sembled to comment upon her mis
deeds. She wound up with a passion
ate appeal to her husband, Mr. Miles
Faraday, who had made an unexpected
appearance. M. Gralllot's face, as she
concluded, was wreathed in smiles.
"Ah !" he cried. "You have lifted us
all up! Now I feel once more the in
spiration. Mademoiselle, I kiss your
hand," he went on. "It is you who still
redeem my play. You bring back the
A Story About an Ex
periment With Life
spirit of it to me. In you I see the era
bodiment of my Therese."
Louise made no movement. Her
eyes were fixed upon a certain
shadowy corner of the wings. Over
wrought as she had seemed, with the
emotional excitement of her long
speech, there was now a new and curi
ous expression upon her face. She was
looking at a tall, hesitating figure that
stood Just off the stage. She forgot the
existence of the famous dramatist who
hung updh her words. Her feet no
longer trod the dusty boards of ' the
theater. She was almost painfully
conscious of the perfume of apple blos
som. "You !" she exclaimed, stretching out
her hands. "Why do you not come and
speak to me? I am here!"
John came out upon the stage. The
French dramatist, with his hands be
hind his back, made swift mental notes
of an Interesting situation. He saw
the coming of a man who stood like a
giant among them, sunburnt, buoyant
with health, his eyes bright with the
wonder of his unexpected surround
ings; a man in whose presence every
one else seemed to represent an effete
and pallid type of humanity.
Those first few sentences, spoken in
the midst of a curious little crowd of
strangers, seemed to John, when he
thought of his long waiting, almost pit
eously. inadequate. Louise, recogniz
ing the difficulty of the situation, swift
ly recovered her composure. She was
both tactful and gracious.
"Mr. Faraday," she said appealingly,
"Mr. Strangewey comes from the coun
try he is, in fact, the most complete
countryman I have ever met In my
life. He comes from Cumberland, and
he once well, very nearly saved my
life. He knows nothing about the
aters, and he hasn't the least idea of
the Importance of a rehearsal. You
won't mind if we put him somewhere
out of the way till we have finished,
will you?"
"After such an introduction," Fara
day said In a tone of resignation, "Mr.
Strangewey would be welcome at any
time."
"There's a dear man!" Louise ex
claimed. "Let me introduce him quick
ly. Mr. John Strangewey Mr. Miles
Faraday, M. Graillot, Miss Sophy Ge
rard, my particular little friend. The
prince of Seyre you already know, al
though you may not recognize him try
ing to balance himself on that absurd
stool."
John bowed in various directions,
and Faraday, taking him good-naturedly
by the arm, led him to a garden seat
at the back of the stage.
"There!" he said. "You are one of
the most privileged persons in London.
You shall hear the finish of our re
hearsal. There isn't a press man in
London I'd have near the place."
Twenty-four hours away from his
silent hills, John looked out with puz
zled eyes from his dusty seat among
ropes and pulleys and leaning frag
ments of scenery. What he saw and
heard seemed to him, for the most
part, a meaningless tangle of gestures
and phrases. The men and women In
fashionable clothes, moving about be
fore that gloomy space of empty audi
torium, looked more like marionettes
than creatures of flesh and blood,
drawn this way and that at the bidding
of the stout, masterful Frenchman,
who was continually muttering excla
mations and banging the manuscript
upon his hand. It seemed like a dream
picture, with unreal men and women
moving about aimlessly, saying strange
words.
Then there came a moment which
brought a tingle into his blood, which
plunged his senses into hot confusion,
ne rose to his feet. It was a play
which they were rehearsing, of course !
It was a damnable thing to see Louise
taken into that cold and obviously
unreal embrace, but it was only a play.
It was part of her work.
John resumed his seat and folded
his arms. With the embrace had fallen
an imaginary curtain, and the rehear
sal was over. They were all crowded
together, talking, in the center of the
stage. The prince, who had stepped
across the footlights, made his way to
where John was sitting.
"So you have deserted Cumberland
for a time?" he courteously inquired.
"I came up last night," John replied.
"London, at this season of the year,"
the prince observed, "is scarcely at Its
best."
John smiled.
"I am afraid," he said, "that I am
not critical. It is eight years since I
was here last. I have not been out of
Cumberland during the whole of that
time."
The prince, after a moment's incred
ulous stare, laughed softly to him
self. "You are a very wonderful person,
Mr. Strangewey," he declared. "I have
heard of your good fortune. If I can
be of any service to you during your
stay in town," he added politely,
"please command me."
"You are very kind," John replied
gratefully.
Louise broke away from the little
group and came across toward them.
"Free at last !" she exclaimed. "Now
let us po out and have some tea."
They made their way down the ltttla
passage and out into the sudden blaze
of the sunlit streets. Louise led John
to a small car which was waiting In
the rear. , .
"The Carlton," she told the man, as
he arranged the rugs. "And now," she
added, turning to John, "why have you
come to London? How long are you
going to stay? What are you going to
do? And most Important of all in
what spirit have you come?"
John breathed a little sigh of con
tentment. "I came to see you," he con
fessed bluntly.
"Dear me!" she exclaimed, looking
at him with a little smile. "How down
right you are!"
"The truth" he began.
"Has to be handled very carefully,"
she said, interrupting him. "The truth
is either beautiful or crude, and the
people who meddle with such a won
derful thing need a great deal of tact.
You have come to see me, you say.
Very well, then, I will be Just as frank.
I have been hoping that you would
come 1"
"You can't imagine how good it Is
to hoar you say that," he declared.
"Mind," she went on, "I have been
hoping it for more reasons than one.
You have come to realize, I hope, that
it is your duty to try to see a little
more of life than you possibly can,
leading a patriarchal existence among
your flocks and herds."
They were silent for several mo'
ments.
"I thought you would come," Louise
said at last; "and I am glad, but even
in these first few minutes I want to
say something to you. If you wish to
really understand the people you meet
here and the life they lead, don't be
like your brother too quick to judge.
Do not hug your prejudices too tightly,
You will come across many problems,
many situations which will seem
strange to you. Do not make up your
mind about anything in a hurry."
"I will remember that," he promised
"You must remember, though, that 1
don't expect ever to become a convert.
I believe I am a countryman, bred
and born. Still, there are some things
that I want to understand, if I can,
and, more than anything else I want
to see you!"
She faced his direct speech this time
with more deliberation.
"Tell me exactly why."
. "If I could tell you that," he replied
simply, "I should be able to answer
for myself the riddle which has kept
me awake at night for weeks and
months, which has puzzled me more
than anything else In life has ever
done."
"You really have thought of me,
then?"
"Didn't you always know that
should?"
"Perhaps," she admitted . "Anyhow,
I always felt that we should meet
again, that you would come to London.
The problem is," she added, smiling,
"what to do with you now you are
here."
"I haven't come to be a nuisance,
he assured her. "I just want a little
help from you. I want to understand
because it is your world. I want to
feel myself nearer to you. I want "
She gripped his arms suddenly. She
knew well enough that she had delib
erately provoked his words, but there
was a look in her face almost of fear.
"Don't let us be too serious all at
once," she begged quickly. "If you
have one fault, my dear big friend
from the country," she went on, with
"I Want to Feel Myself Nearer to You.
I Want"
a swiftly assumed gayety, "it is that
you are too serious for your years.
Sophy and I between us roust try to
cure you of that! You see, we have
arrived."
He handed her out, followed her
across the pavement, and found him
self plunged Into what seemed to him
to be an absolute vortex of human be
ings, all dressed in very much the
same fashion, all laughing and talking
together very much in the same note,
all criticizing every fresh group of ar
rivals with very much the same eyes
and manner. The palm court was
crowded with little parties seated at
the various round tables, partaking
languidly of the most Indolent meal of
the day. Even the broad passageway
was full of men and women, standing
about and talking or looking for tables.
One could scarcely hear the music of
the orchestra for the babel of voices.
The prince of Seyre beckoned to them
from the steps. He seemed to have
been awaiting their arrival there a
cold, immaculate, and, considering his
lack of height, a curiously distinguished-looking
figure-.
infix c
Y
- "I have a table Inside," he told them
as they approached. "It is better for
conversation. The rest of the place is
like a bear garden. I am not sure If
they will dance here today, but if
they do, they will come also Into the
restaurant."
"Wise man!" Louise declared. "L,
too, hate the babel outside."
"We are faced," said the prince, a
he took up the menu, "with our daily
problem. What can I order for you?"
"A cup of chocolate," Louise replied.
"And Miss Sophy?"
"Tea, please."
John, too, preferred tea; the prince
ordered absinthe.
"A polyglot meal, isn't it, Mr.
Strangewey?" said Louise, as the order
was executed; "not in the least what
that- wonderful old butler of yours
would understand by tea. Sophy, put
your hat on straight If you want to
make a good Impression on Mr.
Strangewey. I am hoping that you two
will be great frlends.n
Sophy turned toward John with a
little grimace.
"Louise Is so tactless!'' she said. "I
am sure any Idea you might have had
of liking me will have gone already..
Has it, Mr. Strangewey?"
"On the contrary," he replied, a attle
stiffly, but without hesitation, "I was
thinking that Miss Maurel could
scarcely have set me a more pleasant
task."
The girl looked reproachfully across
at her friend.
"You told me he came from the
wilds and was quite unsophisticated !"
she exclaimed.
"The truth," John assured them,
looking with dismay at his little china
cup, "comes very easily to us. We are
brought up on it in Cumberland."
"Don't chatter too much, child," Lou
ise said benignly. "I want to hear
some more of Mr. Strangewey's im
pressions. This is well, if not quite
a fashionable crowd, yet very nearly
so. What do you think of It the wom
en, for instance?"
"Well, to me," John confessed can
didly, "they all look like dolls or man
ikins. Their dresses and their hats
overshadow their faces. They seem
all the time to be wanting to show, not
themselves, but what they have on."
They all laughed. Even the prince'
Hps were parted, by the flicker of
smile. Sophy leaned across the tafrtft
with a sigh.
"Louise," she pleaded, youwlll lend
him to me sometimes, won'S you? You
won't keep him altogether t yourself?
There are such a lot of places to take
him to!"
"I was never greedy," Louise re
marked, with an air of self-satisfaction.
"If you succeed in making a
favorable impression upon him, I
promise you your share."
"Tell us somo more of your Impres
sions, Mr. Strangewey," Sophy begged.
"You want to laugh at me," John
protested good-humoredly.
"On the contrary," the prince as
sured him, as he fitted a cigarette into
a long amber tube, "they want to
laugh with you. You ought to realize
your value as a companion in these
days. You are the only person who
can see the truth. Eyes and tastes
blurred with custom perceive so little.
You are quite right when you say that
these women are like manikins; that
their bodies and faces are lost; but
one does not notice it until it is point
ed out."
"We will revert," Louise decided, "to
a more primitive life. You and I will
inaugurate a missionary enterprise,
Mr. Strangewey. We will Judge the
world afresh. We will reclothe and re
habllitate it."
The prince flicked the ash from i
end of his cigarette.
"Morally as well as sartorlally?" he
asked.
There was a moment's rather queer
silence. The music rose above the
hubbub of voices and died away again.
Louise rose to her feet. The prince,
with a skillful maneuver, made his
way to her side as they left the res
taurant. "Tomorrow afternoon, I think you
said?" he repeated quietly. "You will
be in town then?"
"Yes, I think so,"
"You have changed your mind, then,
about "
"M. Graillot will not listen to my
leaving London," she Interrupted rap
Idly. "He declares that it is too near
the production of the play. My own
part may be perfect, but he needs me
for the sake of the others. He puts
it like a Frenchman, of course."-
They had reached the outer door,
which was being held open for them
by a bowing commlsslonnaire. John
and Sophy were waiting upon the pave
ment. The prince drew a little back.
"I understand," he murmured. .
John finds himself in the midst
of new city adventures, and he
succeeds in captivating more
than one handsome woman of
the stage world.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
The Squirrel Dog.
There is no accomtlng for that un
canny faculty that eu-ables a homely,
long-legged, sad-eyed pup to go un
erringly to a lofty oak tree in whose
higher branches a bit of animated
brown fur is secreted. Another dog
of the same or more prepossessing ap
pearance and of a better breed might
trot unconcernedly past that same oak
tree without so much as a casual sniff.
But not so with the real "squirrel dog."
He'd pick out the right tree in the
densest grove a hunter ever penetrat
ed. And if that squirrel started leap
ing from tree to tree, that dog woultf
follow it over a siuuie jnfc of tlm
br.