THE LAYING OF THE GHOST
It has been seen that Dalrymple had a short way with the Percy
Whittakers of this world. He strode up the garden path and confronted
Whittaker, who was standing on one foot and clinging in pain and terror
to Dr. Scaife and the nurse.
"You had better remain here," he said sternly. "Miss Ogilvey has only
gone to meet her mother at York. Both ladies will probably arrive this
evening. Why are you making yourself a nuisance when everyone is doing
all that is possible to serve you?"
Whittaker clutched the doctor even more tightly.
"He says that before witnesses," he quavered, "yet less than an hour ago
he tried to strangle me."
"Stuff and nonsense! I don't believe it!" protested Scaife emphatically.
"I frightened him, undoubtedly," said Dalrymple. "It was necessary.
Sometimes a threatened spanking is as effectual as the real thing, and
Mr. Whittaker's nervous system has led him to take an exaggerated view
of my intentions. The fact is that he himself was responsible for a show
of violence on my part. Meanwhile, Marguerite Ogilvey, whom you have
always known as Meg Garth, Dr. Scaife, has promised to become my wife,
so Mr. Whittaker and I have no further cause for quarrel. Indeed, by the
time he is able to walk downstairs unassisted, his own good sense will
come to the rescue, and blot out any unpleasant memories as between him
and me.... Now, Percy, my boy, let me use my muscles to better purpose
than choking the life out of you. I'm going to carry you back to bed
again."
His air of quiet domination, no less than the news which sounded the
knell of Whittaker's hopes, seemed to mesmerize the neurotic youth into
silence and submission. Dalrymple took him in his arms, lifted him off
the ground with gentle care, and carried him to the bedroom he had
insisted on leaving. The nurse followed, and he left the invalid in her
care.
Hastening to the porch, he found Dr. Scaife mopping his forehead; the
worthy doctor was more upset by the frenzied statements made by Percy
than by the physical effort involved by carrying him downstairs.
"Wait one moment," he said. "I'm bringing in some men whom you know.
Then I shall explain everything."
He passed on to the gate.
"I want you, Hutton, and you, Mr. Dobb, to come into the house. Those
police officers also had better join us. Who is the other man?"
"Mr. Banks, of the _Nuttonby Gazette_," said the baronet.
"Very well. Let him come, too. Better tell him what he must not say
rather than correct his blunders subsequently in a court of law."
Mr. Dobb, being a lawyer, doubted the wisdom of admitting a
representative of the press to their conclave, but Dalrymple's air of
authority kept him dumb. During the drive from Nuttonby the delegate of
the India Office had discoursed on the important position this stranger
occupied in India, and it was not for a country solicitor, who hardly
guessed what was coming, to question his decision before he knew its
scope.
And therein Dalrymple showed his genius. Banks, already in a flutter
because of certain indiscretions in his printed references to the
inquest, was at once soothed and gratified by the great man's tact. The
police superintendent found the ground cut away from beneath his feet by
the full and complete version of recent events which Dalrymple
supplied. Sir Berkeley and the doctor listened to the recital with
ill-suppressed amazement, but, at the end, they agreed, each and all,
with Dalrymple's suggestion that judgment should be suspended until Mrs.
Ogilvey was in Elmdale.
He did not attempt to argue that the law should not take its course.
"During the past ten years," he said, "I have held the lives and
liberties of two millions of people in my keeping, so I need hardly say
that I am a most unlikely person to fly in the face of authority. But
there are circumstances connected with this inquiry which call for
careful treatment. Some man died here, and was buried, and the law must
be satisfied that Mr. Stephen Ogilvey was either ignorant of the
occurrence, or had no guilty knowledge of it--which is not quite the
same thing--before he can be exonerated from the grave suspicion at
present attached to his actions of two years ago. Now, I have not the
honor of knowing either Mr. Ogilvey or his wife, but I do hold that they
could not have won the respect of their neighbors during twenty years of
residence in this house and yet be capable of planning and committing an
atrocious murder. I would point out that Mrs. Ogilvey shares some of the
blame, or the guilt, of her husband. If he is a criminal, she knows it.
The law looks with lenient eyes on a woman who shields a man in such
conditions, but that element in human affairs only goes to strengthen my
contention that Mrs. Ogilvey can, if she chooses, throw a flood of light
on this strange problem. She is now on her way North. Her daughter has
gone to York to meet her. In all likelihood, one or both ladies will be
in Elmdale to-night. Is it not reasonable to ask that investigation by
the police into a singular occurrence now two years old should be
postponed till to-morrow? Gentlemen, I promise you this. Come here
to-morrow, say, about two o'clock, and you will be placed in possession
of every fact then known to me. It is obvious, in my opinion, that the
police can hardly adopt any other course, but I am bound to point out to
Mr. Banks that the man who writes, and the newspaper which publishes,
theories or speculations with regard to this matter before it is fully
cleared up through the proper channel, will incur a most serious
responsibility."
Sir Berkeley Hutton, of course, had a word to say.
"Mr. Garth, or Mr. Ogilvey as you now call him, is an old and valued
friend of mine," he declared, "and it is my fixed and definite belief
that if he was stung by a wasp he would find some excuse for a poor
insect which was only trying to protect itself from imaginary danger.
Stephen Garth kill anybody! Stuff and nonsense!"
Mr. Dobb, too, was incredulous in so far as his friend's criminality was
concerned.
"Mr. Garth certainly wrote the letter to the coroner," he said. "I saw
it, and recognized his handwriting. Therefore, he knew that a death had
taken place, and used a remarkably ingenious method of hoodwinking the
authorities. That, in itself, is a legal offense--the magnitude of which
alone can be estimated when we know the truth. I agree with Sir Robert
Dalrymple. We must await Mrs. Garth's, or, I suppose I must learn to
say, Mrs. Ogilvey's, arrival before any other steps are taken.
Meanwhile, it is of the utmost importance that no word of this
discussion shall travel beyond these four walls."
"Will Sir Robert Dalrymple undertake to notify me of Mrs. Ogilvey's
presence?" was the very pertinent inquiry made by the police
superintendent.
Dalrymple undertook readily to send a messenger into Nuttonby early next
morning, and his diplomacy was rewarded by seeing the conclave break up
on that understanding. Nevertheless, he passed a miserable and restless
day. He had not stemmed the torrent, but diverted it. If his faith was
not justified, if Marguerite's mother either refused to give any
explanation of her husband's extraordinary ruse, or denied all knowledge
of it, there was no getting away from the fact that the elderly recluse
might soon be lodged in a felon's cell.
Marguerite herself would strain every nerve to save her father, if only
by flight, but her lover realized how futile that would prove. He had
secured a respite--and no more. If Mrs. Ogilvey's admissions led her
daughter to journey on through the night to Warleggan, the girl might
contrive to hurry her father out of England before the bolt fell. But to
what avail? They would be traced with ease. Their flight, the pursuit,
the arrest, would only add fuel to the flame lighted by inquisitive
newspapers. Better, far better, that the man should face an inquiry at
once rather than be put on trial after a vain attempt to escape.
It was almost a relief to visit Percy Whittaker during the afternoon,
and endeavor to convert him from active enmity into a sulky acquiescence
in things as they were, and not as he hoped they would be. Luckily,
Dalrymple had estimated a curious temperament with singular accuracy.
After a long conversation, in which the older man cajoled and flattered
Percy by turns, the latter declared that he never meant to put his
threat into force.
"I'm not such an ass as to want to marry a girl who loathed the sight of
me," he said ruefully. "I tried to frighten Meg. I guessed she'd run off
to Warleggan. My motive was to separate the pair of you. Then I'd
follow, as soon as this confounded ankle of mine would permit, and tell
her candidly that I was frantically jealous of you. Dash it all, and not
without good cause! All's fair in love an' war, Mr. Armathwaite. I've a
notion now that my splutter simply drove her into your arms."
"My name is not Armathwaite----" began Dalrymple, whereupon Whittaker
glared at him in a new frenzy.
"I never thought it was!" he vociferated. "Let me tell you you're the
biggest puzzle of the lot. I shan't be a bit surprised if you say you
are the fellow who hanged somebody here, and persuaded old Garth to
stand the racket."
So, to pass the time while the nurse was eating a meal, Dalrymple told
him the story of Barapur, and Percy heard, and was subdued, since he
knew now that, come what might, Marguerite Ogilvey was lost to him
forever.
Then, while Dalrymple was surveying the day's work of Smith and his
men, and declaring it was good, there came a messenger from Bellerby on
a borrowed bicycle, bearing a telegram. It was from Marguerite, and
Dalrymple's heart danced with joy when he read:
"All is well. Father leaves for York to-night. He will join mother and
me early to-morrow. Expect us about ten o'clock. Am detaining car. Love,
MEG."
All is well! What was well? It was a woman's message, which assumed
everything and told nothing, except the one amazing fact that Stephen
Ogilvey's wife had evidently decided that the period of concealment was
ended, and that her husband should now vindicate himself in the eyes of
his world.
At any rate, a youth returned to Bellerby with two bicycles and the
richer by two sovereigns, so it is tolerably certain that Dalrymple's
few words of congratulation were not delayed on the way.
The new tenant smoked and mused in the garden for another hour, until
Betty came to summon him to dinner. He was entering the house when he
saw the ghost again, a phantom divested now of eeriness, because a round
blob of sunshine shone on the wall instead of the white sockets of eyes
which lent such a ghoulish aspect to the shadowy face. Then he did a
queer thing. Lifting the grandfather's clock, and disregarding the
protest of weights and pendulum thumping against its wooden ribs, he
placed it exactly where the reflection of the window fell. Instantly,
the ghost vanished. The dark mahogany case absorbed the outlines of the
figure. The old Spanish wood glowed richly here and there where the
lights were strongest, and a disk of gold illumined the dull brass of
the clock's face. And that was the end of the Elmdale ghost! Never again
would it be seen until someone moved the clock, and Sir Robert Dalrymple
vowed that such alteration should not occur in his time.
Luckily, Dr. Scaife came just as Dalrymple was sitting down to a
solitary meal, and he was promptly bidden to the feast. Dalrymple showed
him Marguerite's telegram, and they discussed it for an hour, or longer,
though with no result, for they could only theorize, and, since truth is
stranger than fiction, even two such acute minds failed to arrive at the
actual solution of the mystery.
Dalrymple went late to bed, and awoke early, to find that the
much-maligned British climate had produced another fine day. It was
joyous to see the sun shining into his bedroom; it was still more joyous
to descend the stairs, and glimpse the blue sky through the Black
Prince's visor. A current of pure, sweet-scented air came through the
orifice, and seemed to presage a new span of life to the old house;
Dalrymple decided, then and there, that when the turmoil had subsided,
he would commission the best obtainable artist in stained glass to
restore the Black Prince's features in guise befitting his character as
a warrior, statesman, and true lover.
A few minutes before ten Tom Bland came with a cartload of plants from a
nursery. Smith and the laborers carried the boxes of flowers into the
garden, and set them on both sides of the path, so that happy chance
contrived that Marguerite should lead her parents to their old home
through a blaze of color when the automobile brought them to the gate at
ten o'clock.
It is not often that any collection of mortals is privileged to see a
ghost in broad daylight, and in the rays of a powerful sun at that, but
such was the lot of carrier Bland, gardener Smith, and four gaping
yokels of Elmdale, not to mention a quite respectable number of other
inhabitants, when Stephen Garth alighted from the car and walked
jauntily up the garden to the porch of his own house. To save Mrs.
Jackson and Betty from spasms, Dalrymple had warned them previously of
Mr. Garth's coming, but the men, and Elmdale generally, were not thus
enlightened, and some of them would certainly have bolted had they not
seen "the new guv'nor" shaking hands with "the old guv'nor," and had not
the latter stopped to greet Begonia Smith with the exceedingly trite
remark:
"Well, Smith, I'm not so dead as you thought me!"
"No, sir," said Smith, who did not find his tongue again until the
newcomers had gone into the Grange.
Then he turned to one of the men.
"All I can say, Henery, is this," he murmured huskily. "I've heerd of
people lookin' as though they'd bin dead an' dug up, but I'll take my
oath no one has dug Mr. Garth out o' Bellerby Churchyard."
"It must be all right, though," was the philosophic answer. "Miss Meg
wouldn't look so happy if there was goin' to be trouble."
"Ay! But hurry up with those begonias. In with 'em!"
* * * * *
It would serve no good purpose to set forth in detail the manner in
which Mr. and Mrs. Ogilvey cleared up the mystery on the one hand, and
became mystified themselves on the other. Few parents can rear a
charming daughter to womanhood without experiencing the surprise,
almost the dismay, of finding that she has given her heart to a man of
whom they know little. In this instance, a devoted father and an equally
devoted mother could only listen in bewilderment when the girl, who was
still a child in their eyes, introduced "Robert Armathwaite" as her
promised husband, while their astonished eyes were only paralleled by
Meg's own when the tall, grave-looking stranger proceeded to explain
that he was not Robert Armathwaite, but Sir Robert Dalrymple, K.C.S.I.
Marguerite, at first, believed he was joking. When he assured her he was
even more serious than usual, she relieved the situation by making an
elaborate curtsey to her own reflection in an old-fashioned mirror in
the drawing-room.
"Lady Dalrymple!" she cried. "Presented at court by her humble self! Sir
Robert Dalrymple, K.C.S.I.! Lady Dalrymple, K.I.S.S.!"
Whereupon, she proceeded to invest each of them with her own order.
When the bench, the bar, the police, and the press were duly represented
that afternoon, Mr. Stephen Ogilvey spoke fully and frankly. His wife
and daughter were present, and, if Mrs. Ogilvey wept a little during the
recital, it was only natural.
For she alone knew what this gentle-voiced, white-haired man had endured
during those June days two years ago.
Even the tender-hearted Marguerite could never realize the exquisite
torture which her father had suffered voluntarily. Perhaps the presence
of her lover, combined with the reaction of the discovery that her
father had committed no actual crime, rendered her temporarily incapable
of appreciating the motives which accounted for his actions.
Be that as it may, this is his story:
"To make clear the reason which led me to deceive my friends in Elmdale
in such an extraordinary way, I must go back twenty-four years in my
life. I was then thirty-five years of age, and Professor of Philology in
a recently-formed University in the Midlands. I was married, but, as
some of you know, my first and only child was not born until the events
happened which drove me into retirement, and led my dear wife and myself
to seek the peace and seclusion of Elmdale."
It is not to be wondered at if Dalrymple and Marguerite exchanged
smiling glances at those words; but the Professor's strange narrative
should not be interrupted by lovers' confidences.
"I am a man of highly sensitive nature," he went on, "and my mind almost
gave way under the shock when my brother James, somewhat older than
myself, who occupied a prominent position in Birmingham as manager of an
important private bank, was reported missing from his office under
circumstances which pointed to a serious and systematic embezzlement of
the bank's funds. Day by day the scandal enlarged its bounds. The bank
closed its doors; hundreds of people were ruined; there were several
cases of suicide among the robbed depositors; and, at last, my brother,
James Ogilvey, was arrested in France, owing to a chance meeting with a
man who knew him. He was brought to trial, sentenced to a long term of
penal servitude, and passed into seeming oblivion accompanied by the
curses of thousands. My wife and I literally could not hold up our heads
among our friends in the Midlands, and, as we were not wholly dependent
on my earnings, we resolved to change our name and start life anew. At
that crisis, my mother died. Undoubtedly her death was hastened by my
brother's wrong-doing, and it is probable that she destroyed a will
already in existence, meaning to make another, but was stricken down by
apoplexy before she could carry out her intention. At any rate, no will
was found, so her property became intestate. This house and ground
belonged to her, but she was unknown locally, as she left Elmdale more
than half a century ago, so, after settling some legal matters, my wife
and I determined to live here, and adopt my wife's maiden name. There
was no great difficulty. I still continued to do my work, which was
mainly of a specialist nature, under my own name, but in Elmdale I was
always 'Stephen Garth,' and the catastrophe in the Midlands soon passed
into the mists when our child was born.
"We reasoned that by the time she grew to womanhood, the memory of James
Ogilvey's crime would have died away. At any rate, there was nothing to
be gained by letting her know that such a person had ever existed, and
you can take it from me that she was ignorant of the fact until a late
hour yesterday. Some eight years ago, my unfortunate brother was
released. I met him in London, supplied him with ample funds, and sent
him to the Colonies, taking good care that he should know neither my
altered name nor my address. I heard no more of him until the beginning
of June, two years since, when he wrote to me as 'Stephen Garth,' said
he was coming to live in my house, being tired of a roving life, and
threatened to take lodgings in the village if I did not receive him.
Now, my wife and I were determined that he should never cross our
daughter's path if we could help it, so a journey to France was
resolved on hastily and the two took their departure. For my own part, I
decided to await my brother's coming, and try to reason with him. If he
proved obdurate, I meant to join my wife and daughter abroad, and, to
that end, as Mr. Dobb is aware, I made over all my property to my wife
in trust for my daughter. This step was necessary, I believe, to save
them from persecution at my brother's hands, because he had hinted at
some grievance with regard to the disposition of my mother's estate, a
grievance quite unfounded, since I had dealt with him most generously on
his release from prison. In order to conceal his presence from the
villagers until I had tried every argument to prevail on him to leave me
and my family in peace, I arranged to meet him at Leyburn, and drive to
the edge of the moor. I brought him to the house without anyone being
the wiser, but I soon found I was a child in his hands. He played on my
fear of publicity by agreeing to lie _perdu_ if I would supply him with
drink. I bore with the infliction for some days until, driven to
despair, I refused to purchase any more alcohol. There was a furious
scene between us, and he threatened not merely exposure, but legal
proceedings to force me to 'disgorge,' as he put it, his share of the
property left by our mother, whose maiden name, by the way, Faulkner,
is well known here. I realize now that James was in a state verging on
dementia, but I may sum up a distressing period of four days and nights
of suffering by saying that, in a final paroxysm of rage, he was seized
with apoplexy, and died almost instantaneously.
"Though convinced that he was dead, I hoped against hope for some hours.
Then _rigor mortis_ set in, and I knew that the only man who had ever
inflicted an injury on my good name had struck his last and shrewdest
blow by dying in my house. I want you to consider the position I was in.
A man, a stranger, was lying there dead, in circumstances that demanded
an inquest. I had not called for a doctor, or obtained any assistance
locally. I had sent my wife and daughter to a foreign country, obviously
to get them out of the way. A _post-mortem_ examination would show that
death had taken place nearly a day before I made any stir. If I
destroyed certain documents in my brother's possession--such, for
instance, as a ticket of leave, which he had retained long after its
expiry for the mere purpose, I firmly believe, of bringing pressure to
bear on me--there would be nothing to show his identity. In a word,
there was a _prima facie_ case of murder ready to be established against
me. Of course, the medical evidence would go to prove my innocence, but
all the world--all of my small world, at any rate--would gape and gossip
because of the scandal which my wife and I had given more than twenty
years of our life to escape. For the sake of my wife and daughter I
resolved upon a daring expedient. The 'Ogilvey fraud' of a previous
generation was forgotten. Why should I not resume my own name, and let
my brother die and be buried as Stephen Garth? I saw that my own
behavior during the past week would help the assumption that I had
committed suicide, while a rather marked resemblance between my brother
and myself, together with the fact that he had died from apoplexy, would
complete the illusion. Moreover, there exists, in connection with this
very house, a curious legend which condemned seven generations of its
owners to die by violence, either self-inflicted, or caused by others.
James Ogilvey's death was the seventh, and I trusted to this alleged
prophecy of a Spanish priest put to death by a sea-rover named Faulkner
in the seventeenth century being sufficiently well known in connection
with a shadow, or manifestation, cast on the wall by a stained-glass
window in the staircase.
"At any rate, I steeled my heart to a dreadful undertaking, dressed my
brother in my own clothes, tied his body to a hook in the hall where
the shadow I have spoken of is seen at this time of the year, and stole
away across the moor after writing a letter to the coroner.
"Gentlemen, I believe I have broken the law in some respects, and I am
prepared to suffer for my misdeeds. Perhaps, a long and blameless and
not wholly useless life may plead for me now. I acted as I did because
of a certain pride in my work, and because of my love for a dear wife
and daughter. I dreamed that the dead past had indeed buried its dead
but, by a most unusual combination of simple circumstances, the whole
strange story has been brought to light. I have nothing more to say. Now
that a long ordeal of silence is ended, I am happier to-day than I ever
thought to be again in my existence. I can produce a certain number of
documents to prove what I may term the historical part of my confession.
The really vital part of it--the manner of my brother's death--can
receive no other testimony than my own, eked out by such statement as my
friend, Dr. Scaife, may find himself able to make after hearing my
version of the tragedy."
Marguerite ran to her father and threw her arms around his neck.
"If they take you before a judge, dad," she cried, "let me go into court
and tell them that I was the cause of all the trouble. Then he will
warn me not to be such a bad little girl, and sympathize with you so
greatly that he will say you leave the court without a stain on your
character."
* * * * *
As a matter of fact, owing to the attitude of the authorities and with
the active assistance of Banks in the columns of the _Nuttonby Gazette_,
the official inquiry into the affair attracted very little notice. A
ten-line paragraph explained that it was Mr. James Ogilvey who died, and
not Mr. Stephen Garth, and a special faculty was obtained to correct the
announcement on the stone in Bellerby churchyard. Naturally, the people
in Elmdale and the neighborhood had a pretty fair knowledge of the
truth, but everyone was so pleased to see the "professor" and his wife
again that the thing was hushed up with remarkable ease. Even Percy
Whittaker held his tongue.
Village gossip has it that Storr, the chauffeur, is badly smitten by
Betty Jackson's charms. The girl's mother clinched matters by grumbling
that "sen Betty's gotten a young man there's no doin' owt wi' her." And
Begonia Smith turned the garden into a fairy-land that summer.
The Black Prince received his new and most impressive set of features
before a certain noteworthy marriage took place, and beamed a courtly
approval on the bride when she descended the stairs in her wedding
dress. In fact, the Elmdale tragedy received its quietus when James
Walker, senior, and James Walker, junior, watched Sir Robert and Lady
Dalrymple drive past their office _en route_ to Paris and the Continent.
Said the father:
"Little things often lead to the most surprising events. Who'd ha'
thought, Jimmie, when we let the 'House 'Round the Corner' to a stranger
named Robert Armathwaite, that we were indirectly bringing about the
marriage of Meg Garth to Sir Robert Dalrymple?"
"Well, I didn't, for one!" said the son gloomily.
THE END
* * * * *
ZANE GREY'S NOVELS
_THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS_
A New York society girl buys a ranch which becomes the center of
frontier warfare. Her loyal superintendent rescues her when she is
captured by bandits. A surprising climax brings the story to a
delightful close.
_THE RAINBOW TRAIL_
The story of a young clergyman who becomes a wanderer in the great
western uplands--until at last love and faith awake.
_DESERT GOLD_
The story describes the recent uprising along the border, and ends with
the finding of the gold which two prospectors had willed to the girl who
is the story's heroine.
_RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE_
A picturesque romance of Utah of some forty years ago when Mormon
authority ruled. The prosecution of Jane Withersteen is the theme of the
story.
_THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN_
This is the record of a trip which the author took with Buffalo Jones,
known as the preserver of the American bison, across the Arizona desert
and of a hunt in "that wonderful country of deep canons and giant
pines."
_THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT_
A lovely girl, who has been reared among Mormons, learns to love a young
New Englander. The Mormon religion, however, demands that the girl shall
become the second wife of one of the Mormons--Well, that's the problem
of this great story.
_THE SHORT STOP_
The young hero, tiring of his factory grind, starts out to win fame and
fortune as a professional ball player. His hard knocks at the start are
followed by such success as clean sportsmanship, courage and honesty
ought to win.
_BETTY ZANE_
This story tells of the bravery and heroism of Betty, the beautiful
young sister of old Colonel Zane, one of the bravest pioneers.
_THE LONE STAR RANGER_
After killing a man in self defense, Buck Duane becomes an outlaw along
the Texas border. In a camp on the Mexican side of the river, he finds a
young girl held prisoner, and in attempting to rescue her, brings down
upon himself the wrath of her captors and henceforth is hunted on one
side by honest men, on the other by outlaws.
_THE BORDER LEGION_
Joan Handle, in a spirit of anger, sent Jim Cleve out to a lawless
Western mining camp, to prove his mettle. Then realizing that she loved
him--she followed him out. On her way, she is captured by a bandit band,
and trouble begins when she shoots Kells, the leader--and nurses him to
health again. Here enters another romance--when Joan, disguised as an
outlaw, observes Jim in the throes of dissipation. A gold strike, a
thrilling robbery--gambling and gun play carry you along breathlessly.
_THE LAST OF THE GREAT SCOUTS._
By Helen Cody Wetmore and Zane Grey
The life story of Colonel William F. Cody, "Buffalo Bill," as told by
his sister and Zane Grey. It begins with his boyhood in Iowa and his
first encounter with an Indian. We see "Bill" as a pony express rider,
then near Fort Sumter as Chief of the Scouts, and later engaged in the
most dangerous Indian campaigns. There is also a very interesting
account of the travels of "The Wild West" Show. No character in public
life makes a stronger appeal to the imagination of America than "Buffalo
Bill," whose daring and bravery made him famous.
* * * * *
THE NOVELS OF MARY ROBERTS RINEHART
_"K."_
Illustrated.
K. LeMoyne, famous surgeon, drops out of the world that has known him,
and goes to live in a little town where beautiful Sidney Page lives. She
is in training to become a nurse. The joys and troubles of their young
love are told with that keen and sympathetic appreciation which has made
the author famous.
_THE MAN IN LOWER TEN._
Illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy.
An absorbing detective story woven around the mysterious death of the
"Man in Lower Ten." The strongest elements of Mrs. Rinehart's success
are found in this book.
_WHEN A MAN MARRIES._
Illustrated by Harrison Fisher and Mayo Bunker.
A young artist, whose wife had recently divorced him, finds that his
aunt is soon to visit him. The aunt, who contributes to the family
income and who has never seen the wife, knows nothing of the domestic
upheaval. How the young man met the situation is humorously and most
entertainingly told.
_THE CIRCULAR STAIRCASE._
Illus. by Lester Ralph.
The summer occupants of "Sunnyside" find the dead body of Arnold
Armstrong, the son of the owner, on the circular staircase. Following
the murder a bank failure is announced. Around these two events is woven
a plot of absorbing interest.
_THE STREET OF SEVEN STARS._
Illustrated (Photo Play Edition.)
Harmony Wells, studying in Vienna to be a great violinist, suddenly
realizes that her money is almost gone. She meets a young ambitious
doctor who offers her chivalry and sympathy, and together with
world-worn Dr. Anna and Jimmie, the waif, they share their love and
slender means.
* * * * *
BOOTH TARKINGTON'S NOVELS
_SEVENTEEN._
Illustrated by Arthur William Brown.
No one but the creator of Penrod could have portrayed the immortal young
people of this story. Its humor is irresistible and reminiscent of the
time when the reader was Seventeen.
_PENROD._
Illustrated by Gordon Grant.
This is a picture of a boy's heart, full of the lovable, humorous,
tragic things which are locked secrets to most older folks. It is a
finished, exquisite work.
_PENROD AND SAM._
Illustrated by Worth Brehm.
Like "Penrod" and "Seventeen," this book contains some remarkable phases
of real boyhood and some of the best stories of juvenile prankishness
that have ever been written.
_THE TURMOIL._
Illustrated by C. E. Chambers.
Bibbs Sheridan is a dreamy, imaginative youth, who revolts against his
father's plans for him to be a servitor of big business. The love of a
fine girl turns Bibb's life from failure to success.
_THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA._
Frontispiece.
A story of love and politics,--more especially a picture of a country
editor's life in Indiana, but the charm of the book lies in the love
interest.
_THE FLIRT._
Illustrated by Clarence F. Underwood.
The "Flirt," the younger of two sisters, breaks one girl's engagement,
drives one man to suicide, causes the murder of another, leads another
to lose his fortune, and in the end marries a stupid and unpromising
suitor, leaving the really worthy one to marry her sister.
* * * * *
KATHLEEN NORRIS' STORIES
_MOTHER._
Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.
This book has a fairy-story touch, counterbalanced by the sturdy reality
of struggle, sacrifice, and resulting peace and power of a mother's
experiences.
_SATURDAY'S CHILD._
Frontispiece by F. Graham Cootes.
Out on the Pacific coast a normal girl, obscure and lovely, makes a
quest for happiness. She passes through three stages--poverty, wealth
and service--and works out a creditable salvation.
_THE RICH MRS. BURGOYNE._
Illustrated by Lucius H. Hitchcock.
The story of a sensible woman who keeps within her means, refuses to be
swamped by social engagements, lives a normal human life of varied
interests, and has her own romance.
_THE STORY OF JULIA PAGE._
Frontispiece by Allan Gilbert.
How Julia Page, reared in rather unpromising surroundings, lifted
herself through sheer determination to a higher plane of life.
_THE HEART OF RACHAEL._
Frontispiece by Charles E. Chambers.
Rachael is called upon to solve many problems, and in working out these,
there is shown the beauty and strength of soul of one of fiction's most
appealing characters.
* * * * *
SEWELL FORD'S STORIES
_SHORTY McCABE._
Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.
A very humorous story, The hero, an independent and vigorous thinker,
sees life, and tells about it in a very unconventional way.
_SIDE-STEPPING WITH SHORTY._
Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.
Twenty skits, presenting people with their foibles. Sympathy with human
nature and an abounding sense of humor are the requisites for
"side-stepping with Shorty."
_SHORTY McCABE ON THE JOB._
Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.
Shorty McCabe reappears with his figures of speech revamped right up to
the minute. He aids in the right distribution of a "conscience fund,"
and gives joy to all concerned.
_SHORTY McCABE'S ODD NUMBERS._
Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.
These further chronicles of Shorty McCabe tell of his studio for
physical culture, and of his experiences both on the East side and at
swell yachting parties.
_TORCHY._
Illus, by Geo. Brehm and Jas. Montgomery Flagg.
A red-headed office boy, overflowing with wit and wisdom peculiar to the
youths reared on the sidewalks of New York, tells the story of his
experiences.
_TRYING OUT TORCHY._
Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln.
Torchy is just as deliriously funny in these stories as he was in the
previous book.
_ON WITH TORCHY._
Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln.
Torchy falls desperately in love with "the only girl that ever was," but
that young society woman's aunt tries to keep the young people apart,
which brings about many hilariously funny situations.
_TORCHY, PRIVATE SEC._
Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln.
Torchy rises from the position of office boy to that of secretary for
the Corrugated Iron Company. The story is full of humor and infectious
American slang.
_WILT THOU TORCHY._
Illus. by F. Snapp and A. W. Brown.
Torchy goes on a treasure search expedition to the Florida West Coast,
in company with a group of friends of the Corrugated Trust and with his
friend's aunt, on which trip Torchy wins the aunt's permission to place
an engagement ring on Vee's finger.
* * * * *
NOVELS OF FRONTIER LIFE BY
WILLIAM MacLEOD RAINE
_MAVERICKS._
A tale of the western frontier, where the "rustler," whose depredations
are so keenly resented by the early settlers of the range, abounds. One
of the sweetest love stories ever told.
_A TEXAS RANGER._
How a member of the most dauntless border police force carried law into
the mesquite, saved the life of an innocent man after a series of
thrilling adventures, followed a fugitive to Wyoming, and then passed
through deadly peril to ultimate happiness.
_WYOMING._
In this vivid story of the outdoor West the author has captured the
breezy charm of "cattleland," and brings out the turbid life of the
frontier with all its engaging dash and vigor.
_RIDGWAY OF MONTANA._
The scene is laid in the mining centers of Montana, where politics and
mining industries are the religion of the country. The political
contest, the love scene, and the fine character drawing give this story
great strength and charm.
_BUCKY O'CONNOR._
Every chapter teems with wholesome, stirring adventures, replete with
the dashing spirit of the border, told with dramatic dash and absorbing
fascination of style and plot.
_CROOKED TRAILS AND STRAIGHT._
A story of Arizona; of swift-riding men and daring outlaws; of a bitter
feud between cattle-men and sheep-herders. The heroine is a most unusual
woman and her love story reaches a culmination that is fittingly
characteristic of the great free West.
_BRAND BLOTTERS._
A story of the Cattle Range. This story brings out the turbid life of
the frontier, with all its engaging dash and vigor, with a charming love
interest running through its 320 pages.