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$MARY ROBERT5 RINEHART
y AUTHOR Or "K_" "THE DAM IN LOVCR Wire ‘
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DAKV ROBERTA RIRE/1ART
SYNOP8I8.
CHAPTER I—Old Hilary Kingston
farting with Socialism, drifts into am
archy, and gathers round him In the hall
above the village of Wofflngham a band
of accomplished desperadoes who rob
the rich, Incite seditions and arm the re
belllous. Jlis motherless daughter Elinor
is raised to fine living and wrong thinkl
lng, to no law and no Christ
CHAPTER II—In an attack on the Ag
rarian bank messenger, old Hilary is
killed but Is not suspected of complicity
Boroday brings the body home to the
hall.
CHAPTER III—Ward, assistant rector
of St. Jude’s, makes a call of condolence
on Elinor, who consents to have her fath
er burled from 8t Jude's in the odor of
sanctity The chief of police recognizes
Boroday and Is suspicious.
j ‘ I CHAPTER V.
Boroday had used his day’s freedom
to warn the band and to make plans
for regaining his freedom. Of money
he had none. What he had made under
old Hilary’s leadership had gone back
tp Russia, dollar for dollar. He had
financed part of the Kiev defense of
the Jews, had saved Prince Ovarsky
from Siberia. There were other things.
Money would save Boroday. And
there was practically no money.
By unanimous consent they kept the
news of his arrest from Elinor.
It was Talbot who planned the coun
try club coup. The Russian was In jail
then, on a trumped-up charge. Old
Hilary dead and Boroday in Jail—there
was no one to advise caution.
"Boroday ill!” Elinor exclaimed.
They were accounting for his absence
from her Saturday-night dinner. "Why,
then he should be here, where he can
be cared for."
“We told him that.” Lethbridge was
always readiest with his tongue. "Rut
he's not sick enough to need much,
and he’s deucedly disagreeable when
he’s laid up.”
Elinor was n little hurt.
In the arbor, after dinner, they
planned the robbery. Where old Hil
ary would have taken a month to think
and plan, they took minutes. There
was a ball at the club that night, the
last of the waning country-dub season.
The entrance to the grounds whs a
mile from the clubhouse—two Iron
gates standing open between pillars,
and dense shrubbery all about. Talbot
would wreck his car there, driving Into
one of the gates. That would require
each departing car to slow down, prob
ably to stop.
The arrangement was Hint Talbot
■walk up to the club, and establish an
alibi and his Innocence by telephoning
to a city garage for help. The rest
was left to Huff and Lethbridge. A
quarter of a mile away across the golf
links, they would have a car In which
to make their getaway.
Lethbridge was only lukewarm.
“We’ll get a lot of Jewelry,” he ob
jected. “What we need Is money."
But Talbot was sure the loot would
Include money.
| It was rather cleverly planned.
Prom the vault Huff brought up a fine
chain studded with spikes. Stretched
across the road outside the entrance, It
meant that every car passing over it
would limp along on flat tires. It
meant time to the bandits.
Huff and Lethbridge, who had left
their car In a thicket over the hill,
went first. Talbot followed soon, In
his gray car.
“Good luck, boys,” said Elinor in
echo of her father, from her garden,
and went back Into the house to watch
the clock. At one, or a little sooner—
the summer dances were early ones—
she was tq be In her garden again. The
loot would be thrown over the wall.
1 She was there much earlier, hands
cold, lips shaking with nervousness.
Always old Hilary had done these
things. She was profoundly frightened.
Ward, walking rapidly home from
the club, saw her there, a little after
midnight. There was a young moon,
and at first he thought he must be mis
taken. Then, when he was sure of her,
he ran up the shallow steps. The glad
Iness that was over him rang out In his
deep voice. .
“So now I have your secret," he said
gaily. “Like all the other fairies, you
'are only to be seen In the moonlight!”
: “In the daylight," said Elinor, trying
to smile, “I frequent the woodlands,
land miss my most agreeable visitor-*
my only visitor.” She corrected her
self.
I Her hand was ice In his. j s
“You are cold!” I
| "Really, no.”
There was a minute's pause. They
had no common ground between them.
Ward, who dreamed of her eyes, and
took long walks up the hill In the mere
hope of seeing her 'In her garden,
found himself dumb, now that he stood
before her. He had meant to be most
Impersonal, to run In, say a cheery
“good night” to her, and be off. But
face to face, with the dark house loom
ing over them, he plunged Into the
thing nearest his heart.
“Are you still so—alone?”
“There are the servants.”
*«I—i think of you often. One of ray
windows faces this way, and I cnn see
a light burning very late.”
“I read at night. I do not sleep well.
But you—you are up late, also.
“AU!” He bent a little her in
his eagerness. “You know that? You
know my window?”
‘'Yes. I watch it very often."
It was well for Walter Huff, crouched
In the shrubbery at the country club,
e.\es glittering, automatic revolver In
hand, that he did not hear the thrill
In Ward's voice that night in Elinor’s
garden, or her soft reply.
Many things cried for utterance In
Ward; his pitiful sense of the girl’s
loneliness, a yearning desire to com
ft*rt her, to be nenr her—even more
that tnagic night, a mad longing to hold
out his arms and cons her into them,
as one might coax some shy creature
of the woods.
But Elinor was suddenly aloof and
distant again. At any time now a car
would come wildly down the hill, and
toss at her feet its defiance of law and
ownership. What had she and this
man before her in common? The thrill
was in his voice now, but how quickly
It would turn to loathing when he
knew! She put out her cold hand, and
he took it.
"I am going in now. Good night, and
thank you for stopping.
Ward found himself dismissed, and,
rather dazed, went down the steps to
the road. But one thing he carried
with him down the hill that night:
‘‘I watch your window very often."
The reverend Mr. Ward left his light
on all of that night, so fearful was he
that she might look for it, and cot find
It.
And while it burned, tinder the very
j shadow of Saint Jude’s once more the
( vault in the basement room at the hall
j swung open to Elinor’s practiced fin
gers.
The vlllagp rang with the news of
the outrage the next day. No one had
been hurt, but jewels of large value
had been taken.
To Huff and the of tiers, the raid had
bepn practically a failure. There had
been less than a thousand dollars in
money—not enough to begin negotia
tions for Boroday's freedom. It began
to look as though the dangerous busi
ness of selling some of Elinor’s jewels
would have to be resorted to. Leth
bridge was willing to undertake it, try
ing London first and then Paris.
Elinor offered all the diamonds. If
she must keep a part, she would keep
the pearls. Talbot sorted out the
stones to be sold, but left them with
her for safety. She had never cared
for her jewels. They were not half
■0 lovely as her flowers—and she part
ed from thorn without a pang. But
there was one pink pear-shaped pearl
thnt had ooine in the night before, (hut
she would have rather liked to wear.
On Monday afternoon Ward called
on Elinor. The memory of thnt short
meeting in the garden had been with
him ever since. There was a new light
in his eyes, but she greeted him de
murely, although she flushed with
pleasure.
“Not in a woodland, for once.” she
! said. “And all my fairvllke attributes
! faded in the daylight!”
"Isn’t it rather rash?” he asked
' gravely—“this risking the daylight?”
“I am here beonase 1 .hoped you
! would come to see me.” It was Ward's
turn to flush.
“You said you were lonely, I
thought—”
"I am nlone, but not as lonely as
you think. There is plenty to do. I
have my garden, and I make up little
bouquets for the school children. You
should see how they love them. Some
| days 1 have a dozen clamoring in the
road under the arbor.”
Ward was charmed. He had a quick
vision of Elinor, eyes dancing and soft
hair blowing, bending out of her arbor
window and dropping her quaint sweet
williams und marguerites, mignonette
and garden roses, down to the children.
She led the way to the terrace, where
Henriette was setting the tea-table.
“Nevertheless," Ward said suddenly,
“I am not at all sure I like your living
here alone. It doesn’t seem safe.”
“Safe?”
I “Perhaps I am unwise to alarm you.
But this outrage at the country club—”
“Ah 1” said Elinor, and bent toward
him.
“There Is no longer any question that
a band of desperadoes is terrorizing
the county; an organized band of con
siderable intelligence. They get their
information from the inside. This last
outrage shows it. No one is safe.”
“And this country club affair?” asked
Elinor, watching Ward Intently.
"An audacious piece of work. Half
the women in this vicinity suffered.
Most of them are my parishioners.”
“Ah!” breathed Elinor, “I am sorry.”
Word shrugged his shoulders rueful
ly. “It raenns, I dare say, that the poor
of the parish will get less than ever
this year. Mrs. Bryant, for instance,
who has always been generous, lost a
pearl necklace and a wonderful pear
shaped pink pearl.”
“Is she—a wealthy woman?”
"Very, I believe."
"Then is it such a terrible thing for
her to lose the pearl? Perhaps these
I bandits, as you call them, think they
■ could use these things better than the
people who owned them.”
Ward jpiiled. “I daresay we all
think we could use the other fellow’s
possessions better than he does.”
Elinor persisted, frowning a little.
“Things are so terribly mixed up,”
she said. “If you could know the things
that I know”—Ward looked faintly
amused—“the people who are fighting
for a principle, and have nothing to
fight with, fighting for life sometimes!
A good half of the world, you know,
just struggles-along, and the other half
is so smug, so satisfied; It’s—It’s hor
rible.”
Mr. Ward stared at her.
“How in the world do you come by
such thoughts?” he demanded.
“I've never known anything else; I
was brought up on the injustice of
things. You have your poor here in
the parish, but you see I was brought
tip with the poor of all the world. I
am afraid I’m always for the under
dog.”
Itather startled was Rev. Sir. Ward
that summer afternoon on the terrace
at the Hall, startled and puzzled.
“Down in our hearts,” he said, “per
haps we are all of us for the under
dog. Rut how does that excuse my
bandits?”
“This Mrs. Bryant—how much do
you suppose you are going to lose for
your poor by her loss?”
"Not so much, but enough. She had
promised a lot of things. She called
up this morning to say that it was all
ofT.” He started to say that all bets
were off, but decided that It was un
clerical and changed it. “But I didn’t
come here to worry you about myself
or the parish. I think you should not
be here alone.”
Elinor looked down over the village.
“Then perhaps, after all, it would be
better if I married at once.”
“Ait! You are to be married?”
“Now that my father is gone,” said
Elinor wistfully, “it seems the best
thing. And- I should like children. I
have no friends, except perhaps you.”
Ward strove to keep his voice steady,
and matter-of-fact.
“Marriage is so serious—so vital a
thing.” lie was trying to he calm and
Judicial. But his voice sounded far
off; his heart pounded in his ears. "To
marry because one Is alone, or needs
friends—is a flimsy foundation to build
on.”
Once again Elinor surprised him.
“There have been few really great
passions in the world,” she said. “I
could almost count them on my fingers.
The rest of us seem to get along with
out.”
“Perhaps there are more than we
hear about. Every now and then, in
my work, I come across something so
much greater than I had expected, self
sacrifice, love, charity, as to Justify my
faith in mankind.”
“Your faith!” Elinor snid softly.
“That is what I envy you—your faith.
Not only your faith in your kind, but—
the other sort.”
Faith, hope and chcrlty—and the
greatest of these is faith. Alas for old
Hilary, who had not kept his!
“I had a governess once who had
that sort of faith; it was a great com
fort to her. But I sit here on my hill
side, and it seems to me that spread
out at my feet is all the injustice and
cruelty and hatred in the world. And
your God allows it all. My fnther tried
to believe—tried hard, but he said that
when he asked for bread they gave him
a stone.”
“Do you know who said that?”
“My fnther,” said Elinor.
Rather surprised, he let It go at that.
CHAPTER VI.
So great had the urgency of Boro
day's position become that the hand
met at the hall on Thursday of the
\wook nft<jr the country-club nffnir. j
Lethbridge was to get his instructions;
Talbot wished to discuss his prospect.
After dinner, the night being warm,
they had their coffee on the terrace.
A summer storm had come up. All
at once a flash threatened Saint
Jude’s.
Huff leaped to his feet.
“I've got it!" he said. “What is it
they call the big building back of the
church ?”
None of the men knew. It was. as a
matter of fact, the parish house. Leth
bridge, however, knew its function.
"Fine prospect that!” he drawled.
“Thnt's where the Sunday school is
held, and where they keep the pinted
knives and forks for the church sup
pers.”
“It’s a darned fine building,” said
Huff. “What would they do if it burned
down ?”
They were too unfamiliar with
church affairs to hazard a guess. Eli
nor, who had been sitting silent, sud
denly voiced qn objection to Huff’s un
spoken plan.
“There must be some other way,”
she said. “The children—they have
sewing classes and entertainments for
the children there. It’s the parish
house.”
“If lightning struck the pnrish house
tonight—” Iluff said quite eagerly.
“This is Thursday. By Sunday morn
ing they would- he taking up a whack
ing big collection to rebuild it.”
The idea had tnken hold of his imagi
nation. Even the suggestion that a
large part of the offertory might be in
checks mattered not. But Elinor was
obdurate.
“Ton can do it some place else,” she
said. “Not here. They struggled very
hard to build the church nnd they need
money now. Mr. Ward told me—”
Huff turned on her Jealously.
“Ward—that’s the preacher chap?"
“He is the assistant rector," Elinor
replied with dignity.
“He’s been coming here, then?”
“Twice. Once when father died, and
once to warn me against all of you.”
Not that she had forgotten that few
minutes In the garden, under the moon ;
but that had been an accident—hardly
a call.
Taftjot chuckled. But Huff was
thinking hard. Elinor had been differ
ent lately, a little softer. Ward rep
resented all that the men Elinor knew
were not—lnw to their violence, order
to their disorder. There was almost a
snarl In his voice.
“He’d better stny down in his valley
wilh his old women,” he said, “and
leave you alone. You don’t need him.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” Elinor re
plied quietly, and left him staring. . . .
Huff burned the parish house the
next night. He did it himself, without
the assistance of the hand. Into It he
put not only the devilish ingenuity of
long experience, but his new hatred of
Ward.
Church property is always easy of
access. It was the work of five min
utes to crawl through a basement win
dow and of half an hour to make his
preparations.
He looked at his watch when he had
finished. It was Just midnight. In two
hours, or before the fire began, he
would be back in the city, establishing
his nlibi.
The fire-whistles in the village
wakened Elinor at something after
three o’clock. All of her room was
filled with the red glare of JJie burn
ing parish house. Old Henrlette
knocked at her door.
“The church is burning down in the
valley," she called. “It’s a grand
sight.”
Elinor was throwing on her clothing.
She must see Ward. She would sell
her pearls. She would build a new
parish house. She said this over and
over to herself as she struggled down
the hill.
A new parish house, better than the
old, with plenty of room for the chil
dren to play In! At least it was night,
and the children safe In their beds;
thank God for that! She was too dis
turbed to notice that she had thanked
the God in whom she did not believe.
The fire had gained too much head
way to be checked. \11 the efforts of
the volunteer department and the small
engine were directed toward saving
the church. For a time it seemed as if
Saint Jude’s must go.
(Continued Next Week.)
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