The Girl Who'’
Had No God
By MARY ROBERTS RINEHART
A pulse-stirring tale of a
beautiful young girl who
succeeds her father as
leader of a band of intel
ligent anarchistic bandits.
A Narrative of Mystery,'
Courage, Love and Sacrifice
Watch for and Read
OUR NEW SERIAL
1 Mrs. Rinehart
y A Remarkably Successful and r
Versatile Writer and
Novelist
!ll!lli!0!WU!IIUl!UUHUlDH
Successful women novelists are by
no means unusual but there are few
writers among the fair sex who have
displayed the versatility in their work
that has Mrs. Mary Roberts Rinehart.
One of the things that Mrs. Rine
hart takes particular pride In Is the
fact that she Is the adopted daughter
of the Black Feet tribe of Indians,
graced by the name of Pl-ta-mak-an
or "Running Eagle.” W hUe on a va
cation In the northwest two years ago,
following her return from Europe, Mrs.
Rinehart met the chiefs of the tribe,
who conferred the usual honor upon
her because of her bravery In visiting
the battle front.
For the
Oppressed
That was the creed
i of old Hilary Kings
ton, chief of the cunning
band that robbed the rich
to give to the poor, to in
! i cite sedition! and to arm
the rebellious. ***,
Hilary was, seem
ingly, a respectable
member of society, living
in a handsome home on the
hill with his servants and
his beautiful daughter who
was reared in lawlessness
and taught from childhood
the righteousness of her
father’s tenets.
But wh e n old
Kingston was acci
dentally killed and Elinor
succeeded as chief of the
band, changes came into the
life of the girl.
] | You will find it
I worth your while to
a read the new serial to be
f printed in this paper —
iThe Girl
|Who Had
No 'God
WHO
J1AD NO GOD'
|9MARY ROBERTS PINEMART
y AUTHOR OF K,”"THE DANJN LOWER TEI1"ITC.
COPYRIGHT - ,--4 _-w, -
/NARY ROBERTO RlHEXART
CHAPTER I.
Hilary Kingston had been shot.
Old Hilary had been a familiar flg- ,
ore in the village of Woflingham for j
years. The eccentricity of his gray '
derby hat, his beetling gray brows, his
always^ fresh gray gloves, his erect,
rather heavy old figure, singled him
out from the mass of commuters that
thronged the city trains. The gray
derby was a part of old Hilary. Ex
cept on those rare occasions when he
attended service at Saint Jude’s he
was never seen without it.
He lived on the hill above the vil
lage, with his daughter—had lived
there for ten years. The hall was
beautiful, but old Hilary received no
visitors, returned no advances. Visit
ors thought this curious. The villagers,
prosperous business men with smart
wives, shrugged their shoulders. The
man’s house was his own. If he found
that he could do without the town,
the town could get along without him.
There was no mystery about the
hall, and little curiosity. Cars going
to the country club passed under the
bricft wall of Its Italian garden. Their
occupants sometimes caught a glimpse
of Elinor Kingston there, reading in a
rose arbor, wandering among her
peonies and iris in the spring, or cut
ting sprays of phlox in midsummer.
The men thought her rather lovely;
the women, odd, with her blond hair
and dark eyes. The assistant rector
of Saint Jude’s, newly come to the vil
lage. met her face to face on one of
his long country walks, a month or so
before old Hilary’s death, and could not
forget her.
He led the conversation to her that
night at a dinner.
“An exquisite face," he described
her, “but sad. almost tragically sad."
“Blond?” The lady on his right was
a Mrs. Bryant. In honor of the new
assistant rector, who came of fine fam
ily and was a distinct acquisition to
the village, she wore the Bryant pear
shaped pearl. She spoke rather curt
ly. “I should not call her exquisite—
but you probably met Elinor Kingston.
Her sadness is a pose, I believe; she
has everything she wants."
The assistant rector was young, but
very wise. So he spoke no more of
Elinor until the women had left the
table. Then he ventured again.
“Don't Join the army of those of us
who worship from afar,” advised the
youth who had moved up beside him.
‘She’s the loveliest thing In this part
of the country. But, except our sainted
rector, no one ever gets to put a foot
;>n the place. It’s exclusiveness to the
nth power, and then some. There’s
a lot of talk, of course, or used to be.
Old Kingston brings his servants from
New York, and except an elderly
housekeeper, none of them speak Eng
lish. They used to say around here
that he was a refugee, but Hint's all
rot. He's a stingy old dotard, afraid
jorne handsome youth like myself will |
rnptivate the girl. That’s all there is |
to It.”
The assistant rector, wnose name
was Ward, smiled perfunctorily. In
stead of the gleaming table, spread
ivith flowers and candles, with the gay
colors of cordials and liqueurs, he was
seeing a girl standing at the turn of a
country rond and gazing down into the
valley and the distant village with
somber eyes, . . .
Faith, hope and charity, and the
greatest of these is faith. Faith In our
selves, faith In those around us, and
that subllmest faith of all which
trusts In something beyond. To all
men is given such faith at the begin
ning of life, and some keep It to the
end. But here and there Is one who
lias lost it, who cannot turn his eyes
up nnd say “Lord, Lord.” Old Hilary
had not kept the faith.
Yenrs ago he had not been evil. He
had gone from philosophy Into unbe- i
lief, that route which all must travel. I
But, unlike the many, he had not come
back.
He had started with socialism, but
socialism must be founded on the
Christ, nnd him he scorned. So from
socialism ho had drifted to anarchy.
To rob the rich and give to the poor,
at first. Later on, to rob the rich, to
Incite seditions, to arm the rebellious—
oh, it was comprehensive enough, vast
ly wicked with that most terrible law
lessness of all, that believes Itself law. :
To pit his wits against the world i
and win—that had been old Hilary’s
creed. “For the oppressed” had been
at first the slogan of the band he gnth- j
orod around him. “Against the op- :
pressor" it became later on. Vustly j
different the two. Most of humnn 1
charity nnd kindliness lny crushed
down nnd trninpled underfoot during
old Hilary’s progress from Christ to
Antichrist.
The band had been gathered with
much care. Respectability, order, de
corum—these spelled safety to old
Hilary’s astute mind. Most of them
were younger sons of English landed
families, with a sprinkling of other na
tionalities. Young Huff was an Aus
tralian, for Instance, the son of a
wealthy sheep-owner. Boroday the
Russian—Implicated in the bomb
throwing that destroyed the minister
of war—was a nobleman. Old Hilary
bad got him out it Siberia during
those early days when he righted what,
to his crooked mind, were wrongs.
There were twelve In the band at the
beginning, and for five years there
were no changes. Then caine the kid
napping and holding for ransom of
Mackintosh the banker In Iowa, and
the unexpected calling out of the :-;ate
militia. The band had hidden Mack
intosh in a deserted mine and three of
the band went down in the shooting
that followed his discovery. In the
looting of Tiffany’s vaults, which has
never been published, a Frenchman
named Dupres was killed; and only
recently a tire had burst after the
holding up of the car of the governor
of Delaware, and their car, overturn
ing, hud crushed Jerrold, the mechanic
of the band and old Hilary's chauffeur.
One way and another, there were only
five left: Talbot and Lethbridge the
w \
To Pit HI* Wits Against the World
and Win—That Had Been Old Hi
lary'* Creed.
Englishmen, Borr.iay, Huff and old
Hllury himself. And old Hilary’s houi
was almost come.
Old Hllnry lived well, as he might.
His foreign servants were artists. lie
liked good food, good wines, good
books. He even had a few pictures—
from the leading galleries of Europe.
He hung them In the house at Wofflng
hant, with a cynical smile.
“Safest place in the world,” he said
to old Henriette, who protested. “The
village has never even heard of them !”
And so In this atmosphere with
which he surrounded himself, of fine
living nnd wrong thinking, of atheism
raised almost to religion, of no law
and no Christ, old Hilary had brought
up his daughter. He had been proud
of her In his way; absolutely selfish,
too. She had had no other compan
ion. He taught her his unbelief, point
ing out the churchgoers, as they drove
together on Sunday mornings, as
slaves to a myth. Also, he taught her
to hate a lie, and to give alms. Early
In her life their drives together had
been punctured with questions.
"But If my mother Is dead, where is
she?” asked Elinor on one of them.
Old Hllnry had eyed her from under
eyebrows that were already gray.
“She lives In the memories of those
that knew and loved her.”
“Hut I never knew hgr. Then for me
she doesn’t live! But Mademoiselle—”
she cheeked herself. Suspicion had
been dawning In old Hilary’s eyes.
“Death Is the end,” he said tersely,
and quoted Darwin and Haeckel to
her. But at the end of the ^rlve he
Interviewed Mademoiselle, and sent
her fly lug to her chamber, where from
under the carpet beneath her bureau,
she got her rosary and wept over It.
Elinor was twenty the year her fa
ther died, a slender girl, fond of flow
ers, rather a dreamer. Well educated,
too. Old Hilary had seen to that; she
knew Malato, Haeckel, Bakunin; spoke
French and Spanish—Hilary hud
spent much time In Central America
helping the insurgents; it was he who
financed the Insurrection in northern
Mexico—and wrote fluently the form
of shorthand that her father had de
vised as a means of communication be
tween the leader of the band. A keen
eyed, wistful-mouthed slip of n gli1,
shut off In the great house on the hill
nbove Woffingham; living her life of
big theories and small duties, cal
loused to robbery and violent deeds,
and viewing wistfully from her win
dows the little children In the road be
low.
CHAPTER II.
Once a year the association closed
1 Its books. During ull of the June be
fore old Hilary’s sudden deuth, Elinor
j had been busy arranging figures, eol
1 looting data in the cryptic shorthand
! she knew. Then, on the first of July,
Hilary gave his annual dinner.
The band, from twelve, was down to
five. Boroday, the Russian, glancing
around the table, shrugged his shoul
ders. It was the chance of the game
they played, and percentages would
be .urger. Nevertheless there was a
weight of depression over them all."
Elinor was at her father’s right,
Simply dressed. The dinners were al
ways a trial to her. She was palpitat
ingly anxious that the papers before
old Hllnry be In order and accurate.
They were her work. The deeper sig
nificance of the meeting she was not
so much ignornnt of ns profoundly In
different to. If her father did a tiling.
It took on order, became a law.
There were present Talbot and Leth
bridge, the Englishmen; Boroday,
whose rescue from Siberia had made
him old Hilary's henchman; and
young Huff. Huff was the mechani
cian. He had been trained in the
Bleriot works; airplanes to wireless,
automobiles to automatic pistols, he
knew them—all makes, all grades. If
old Hilary was the brains, Huff was
the hands of the band.
He sat beside Elinor, and watched
her with worshiping eyes. I’erhnps It
was ns well that old Hilary was intent
on his food and on the business in
hand.
The routine of the annual dinner
seldom varied. Five of them then,
that last dinner around the table. In
evening clothes, well set up, spare,
three of them young, all temperate,
honorable about women—as polished,
as harmless In appearance, as death
dealing, as the gleaming projectile of
a twelve-inch gun!
First old Hilary went over the books.
It might have been the board meeting
of some respectable bank. He stood
at his end of the table, and the light
from the chandelier fell full on him.
"I have to report, gentlemen,” he
would say, ‘‘a fairly successful year.”
This Is where It differed from a bank.
The association had had no bad years.
“While our expenses have been heavy,
returns huve been correspondingly so."
And so on, careful lines of figures, out
lays and returns, to the end. For old
Hilary was secretary and treasurer as
well as president.
This time, when he had reached the
end of what wns to be his last report,
he paused and cleared his throat.
“Unfortunately, that is not all, gen
tlemen. ‘Nothing can we call our
own but death.’ And it is my sad
duty to report, this Inst year, the loss
of three of our number. A calamitous
year, gentlemen.”
lie nngnt nave been n trustee, la
menting the loss of valued supporters
to a hospital!
Afterward, In the library, with El
inor embroidering by the Are, they
cashed In. They dealt only In cash.
Securities were dangerous. Once or
twice Boroday had successfully nego
tiated with a fence In Paris, but al
ways under old Hilary’s protest.
The routine never varied. Elinor
unlocked the door to a winding stair
case, which led to a hasement room
where the steel vault stood In Its ce
ment walls. The five went down, re
turning shortly with the cash-boxes.
I The money was divided on the library
I table. It went by percentages. Hil
ary drew 20 that last year, each of
the others 10—a total of 60 per cent.
The 40 per cent remaining was di
vided, or sent as a whole, according
to the sense of the meeting. Berlin
got It all one year, for instance, to
Boroday’s disgust. Russia generally
received a large proportion. The Chi
nese revolution; the defense of Berk
hardt, who killed Ecker the- pork
packer; a shipment of guns and am
munition to Central America—thus It
went.
Although they preferred only money,
now and then the loot Included Jewels.
By common consent, such gems,
stripped of their settings, were put
aside for Elinor. They meant nothing
to her. Had anyone told her that for
several years her share had been
greater In actual value than all the
money that had fallen to her father
she would not have believed It. . . .
Four days or so after the annual
meeting, the rector of Sulnt Jude’s was
always asked to dinner. And although
the reverend gentleman would under
normal circumstances ha^ been fish
ing In Canada, he never went until this
function was over. For old Hilary, de
testing Ills creed, respected the man.
A certain percentage, then, of old Hil
ary’s share went over the library ta
ble, after the dinner, to the rector.
“Use it where it will do the most
good,” he would say.
“The church organ—”
“Not ft cent to the church organ.
I Buy the youngsters a playground, or
| —build a lylng-ln ward In the hos
pital.”
Elinor’s mother had died In child
birth.
The last check had been unnsflnlly
: generous. The rector, who had been
j smoking one of old Hilary’s choice
j clgnrs, put It down and faced his host
resolutely. It took courage.
"Mr. Kingston,” he said, “the church
needs men like you. Why be a Chris
tian in the spirit and—avoid the let
ter?"
"Tut." Old Hilary rose and looked
down at him. “I am like all gamblers.
This annual check to your poor Is the
sop I throw to luck. Thnt’s all, sir.”
And his tone closed the discussion.
The word “gambler” worried the rec
tor. He thought over it on his way
down the hill to the rectory. But his
poor were very poor. He cashed the
check the next day. . . .
Elinor was In the library that sunny
August day when they brought old
Hilary to her. She had never seen
death before, except on the streets of
Mexico, and for a good many years he
had been all she had—since her last
governess, in fact, had been discovered
secreting the rosary and had been
word-scourged from the house in tears.
She fainted, and wrinkled Henrietta
laid her on n couch.
Boroday, the Russian, had brought
the body home, and now he stood, look
ing down at Elinor and strokiug his
English-cut beard.
"He exported It. Henrietta," he said.
“He thought It would have come soon
er, In the Parker matter. I wonder—”
He glanced through the open door to
the billiard room, where old Hllury’s
body lay on the table. He was minded,
was Boroday, to wonder many things—
whether, after all, old Hilary’s daunt
less spirit had gone out like a Inmp,
or If—
This white nnd carven thing In the
next room, with stiffening hands and
the gray derby at Its feet, surely there
was no mystery about It. Tills was
not old Hilary: that was all. But
where, then, was old Hilary? The Rus
sian, who hnd been raised within the
pale and on an nnclent faith, and who
had now lost his best friend, felt all
the bitterness of his unbelief.
Elinor stirred.
“He will hnve to be buried,” said
Henriette. “The news has gone
through the town. The assistant rector
“Let Them Bury Him aa They Will,"
Said Boroday.
of the church has telephoned, and is
on his way here now. What uni I to
i do?"
“Let them bury him as they will,"
said Boroday, ‘‘What does It matter?
he would himself have seen the humor
of It."
Hilary Kingston had been shot dur
ing the daylight robbery of the Agra
I rlan bank messenger. He was shot ns
1 an Innocent bystander, and was re
ferred to by the press as philanthropist
and martyr. So much for years of cau
' ] tion and the annual gift to Smiat
| Jude’s.
/ As a matter of fact, the Agrarla/>Ji£z
| fair was calamitous Jarstweraf ways. It
I bore too chw** n resemblance to a St.
' Louts matter of several years back. In
which Boroday haa come under sus
picion.
On a Tuesday morning, the cash be
ing mote than the bank cured to have
about, two hundred and ten thousnnd
dollars was sent to the clearing house.
Two clerks from the bank accompanied
the messenger, who went by taxScab.
There are two direct routes to the
clearing house: one along one of the
great avenues, the other through the
newspaper district. Here, at ten-thirty
In the morning, things are rather quiet,
uud except for vans delivering rolls of
paper, there Is little traffic.
The taxicab went by this latter route.
Opposite the Record office, where the
presses stood, silent monsters waiting
to leap, old Hilary Kingston was
standing, kldglowd and Wearing the
gray derby hat he affected. As the
taxicab bore down toward him he
hailed it.
“Taxi!" he called.
The taxicab slowed down. Old Hil
ary, seeing it occupied, waved it off
with his stick. But it had come to a
full stop. There was an alleyway be
side the Record building, and now three
men ran out from there, and thrust re^
volvers through the open windows of
the cab. After that It was hot work.
Marshnll of the bank went back with a
bullet through his lung. The bunk
messenger fired pointblank, and missed
ids target; but old Hilary, gray derby
and all, went down where he stood,
twenty feet away. The uninjured clerk
had an automatic gun, and swept a
circle with it over the bag tvhlch lay
at his feet. Tjjere was no getting in
side that ring of death. The bundlts
retreated, firing ns they ran, and
climbed into an automobile up the
street. When the reporters In the Rec
ord office wakened to the fact that
there was n story under tlielr windows,
the street was clear. Only old Hilary
lay dead on the pavement, with a bullet,
lu Ills head.
The chauffeur of the taxicab drove
madly to the hospital with Marshall,
who was dying, and then to police
quarters where he gave himself up. He
I was released, of course. His name was
Walter Huff. He was shown to be a
new man, hut sober and industrious,
| one of the best drivers In the employ
| of the taxicab company. It was also
' shown that Hilary Kingston had hailed
him; Huff explained his stopping. Mr.
Kingston was a regular patron; he had
meant to tell him that In five minutes
he would come back and trick him up.
| Huff was under surveillance for
. three days. Hts conduct was lmpec*
' cable. ____
(Continued Next Week.)
Dally Thought.
No nmn is wortli more than another
if lie does no more than ajoother.—Cer
vantes in “Don Quixote.”