The Crosbyton Review. (Crosbyton, Tex.), Vol. 8, No. 41, Ed. 1 Friday, November 10, 1916 Page: 3 of 8
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(Copyright
Louis Joseph
SYNOPSIS.
After stealing the Omber jewels and the
iluysman war plans In London Michael
Lanyard returns to Troyon's, a Paris inn,
for the first time in many years because
he thinks Roddy, a Scotland Yard man,
is on his trail. Lanyard dresses and goes
•out, leaving Roddy snoring in the next
roon?, then comes back stealthily, to find
•In hja rnnm IVTllp /Rannon. Tn the anart-
anenjt near the Trocadero he finds an in-
vitation from The Pack to the Lone Wolf
to join0 them. Lanyard attempts to dis-
pose of the Omber jewels, but flnds.^that.
The Pack has forbidden the buyfexs.. -to
■ileal with.him. He meets The Pack, but
refuses alliance with them. On his re-
turn to his room he is attacked in the
dark, but knocks out his assailant. He dis-
covers that Roddy has been murdered in
hie bed and starts to leave the house. In
the corridor he encounters Lucia Bannon,
who insists on leaving with him. Having
no money Lucia is obliged to take refuge
with Lanyard in the studio of an absent
artist friend of his. He locks her in a
room alone. After sleep Lanyard finds
his viewpoint changed. He tells Lucia
who he is. Mutual confessions follow.,
She is Lucy Shannon, not Bannon, and
has been used as. a tool by Bannon, the
•crook. The American murderer of Roddy
was Bannon's secretary. Lucy agrees to
go with him to return the London loot. A
newspaper wrapped In a brick is thrown
through the skylight. The paper has an
account of the total destruction by fire of
Troyon's. They go to Mme. Omber's Paris
residence, burglariously restore the jew-
els, then to the home of M. Ducroy,
■minister o'f war, to return the Huysman
fapers In return for safe conduct out of
'ranee. "On coming out Lanyard finds
Lucy gone. Lanyard turns taxi chaf-
feur.
however inexplicable it might seem to
him, excused., all her apparent faith-
lessness and instability of character
and purpose. He couldn't look upon
this girl and listen to her voice and be-
lieve' that she wasn't at heart as sound
and sweet and tender and loyal as any
that ever breathed!
a
■«
y •'A
■
iss
■ ><?
KSti
Hi
CHAPTER XXIII—Continued.
There was sufficient light to enable
Mm to se6 clearly the face of the
: passenger—its pale oval and the eyes
whose gaze clung to hi" with an effect
■of confused fascination.
She sat quite motionless until one
white-gloved hand' moved uncertainly
toward her bosom.
That brought him to; unconsciously
lifting his cap, he stepped back a
pace and started'to move on.
But at that she bent quickly forward
find unlatched the door. It swung wWa
4© him.
Hardly knowing what he was doing,
lie accepted . the mute invitation,
^tepped intd the cab, took the empty
seat beside her, and closed the door.
Almost at once the block was lift-
ed, and the car moved on with a Jerk,
ihe girl sinking back into her corner
^svith a suggestion of breathlessness,
$.3 though the effort she made to seem
composed had been almost too much
tor her strength.
Her face, turned to Lanyard in the
fcalf-light, appeared immobile, ex-
essionless; only her eyes were alert
til anticipation But she said noth-
ing.
On his part Lanyard felt himself
hopelessly confounded, in the grasp
of emotions that would scarcely suffer
Slim to speak. A - great wonder ob-
sessed his mind that she should have
opened the door to him no less than
that he should have entered through
it. Dimly he understood that both
had acted without premeditation, and
he asked himself: "Was she already
regretting that momentary weakness
—or whatever it had been?"
"Why did you do that?" he heard
himself demand abruptly; and felt that
jhis voice sounded harsh, strained, un-
aatural.
. She stiffened slightly, with a nervous
(movement of her shoulders.
"Because I saw you."
"Did you want to talk to me, per-
haps?" he prompted.
"I was surprised; I had hoped—be-
lieved—you had left Paris."
She surveyed his costume with a
curious glance, perplexed.
"Why are you dressed that way? Is
it a disguise?"
"A pretty good One—as a matter of
fact, the national costume of one in
my present station in life."
"But you are wrong. I recognized
you instantly, didn't I? And those oth-
ers—they're as keen-witted as I—cer-
tainly! Oh, you should not have
stopped in Paris!"
, "I couldn't go without knowing what
had become of you.'
"I was afraid of that," she confessed.
; "Then why—"
"Oh, I know what you're going to
say! Why did I run away from you?"
Then, since he said nothing, she con-
tinued unhappily: "I can't tell you. I
mean, I don't know how to tell you!"
Uhe-kept her face averted, sat gaz-
lnfr blankly out of the window.; but
" when he remained mute and unre-
sponsive—in point of fact not knowing
what to say—she turned to look in-
quiringly at him, and the glare of a
pafislng lamp showed him her counte-
nance profoundly distressed, ' lies-
mouth tense/brows knitted,,eyes cloud-
ed with perplexity and,appeal.
And of a sudden, seeing her so tor-
mented and so piteous, his Indigna-
tion ebbed, and with it all his doubts
of her; dimly he divined that there
yas something behind this dark fabrlti
>f mystery and inconsistency that,
A wave of tenderness and compas-
sion swept his heart, and he realized
that he didn't matter, that nothing
mattered bo long as she was spared
one slightest pang of self-reproach.
He said very gently: "I wouldn't
have you distress yourself on my ac-
count; Miss Shannon. I quite under-
stand there must be things I can't un-
derstand—that you must have had
your reasons for acting as you did."
"Yes," §he said evenly, but again
with eyes averted—"I had; but they're
not easy, they're impossible to explain
to you."
"Yet—when all's said and done—I've
no right to exact any explanation."
"Ah, but how can you say that, re-
membering what we've been through
together?"
"You owe me nothing," he insisted,
"whereas I owe you everything, even
unquestioning faith. Even though I
fail, I have this to thank you for—this
one not ignoble impulse my life has
known."
"You mustn't say that; you mustn't
think it. I don't deserve it. You
wouldn't say it—if you knew—"
"Perhaps I can guess enough to sat-
isfy myself."
She gave him a swtft. sidelong look
of challenge, instinctively on the de-
fensive.
"Why," she almost gasped, "what do
you think—"
"Does it matter what I think?"
"It does, to me. I wish to know!"
"Well," he conceded reluctantly, "I
think that; when- you had a chance to
think things over calmly, while you
waited for me there in the garden, you
decided it would be better to—to use
your best Judgment and—extricate
yourself from an embarrassing en-
tanglement—"
"But you were wrong!" she pro-
tested vehemently — "qujte, quite
wrong! I ran away from myself—not
from yoli—a| ljjvith , another motive,
too—one that I can't explain."
"You ran away from yourself—not
from me?" he repeated, puzzled.
"Don't you understand? Why make
it so hard for me? ,Why make me say
outright what pains me so?"
"Oh, I beg of you—
"But if you won't understand other-
wise—I must tell you, 1 suppose." She
checked herself, breathless, flushed,
and trembling. "You remember our
talk after dinner that night—how I
asked you, what if you were to find out
you'd been mistaken in me, that I had
deceived you; and how I told you it
would be impossible for me ever to
marry you?"
"I remember," he assented gravely.
"It was because of that," she said, "I
ran away; because I hadn't been talk-
ing idly when I said what I did; be-
cause you were mistaken in me, be-
cause I was deceiving you, because I
could never marry you, and because—
suddenly—I came to know that, if 1
didn't leave you then and there, I
might never find the strength to leaVe
you, and only greater suffering and un-
happiness could come of it. I had to
go, as much for your sake aa for
mine."
"You mean me to understand that
you found you were beginning to—to
care a little for me?"
She made an effort to speak, but fa
the end answered him only with a
dumb Inclination of her head.
"And you ran away, then, because
love wasn't possible between us?"
Again, silently, she bowed her head.
"Because I had been a criminal, 1
presume?"
"You've no right to say that—"
"What else can I think? You tell, me,
you were afraid I might induce you to
become my wife—something which,
for some incomprehensible reason, you
claim is impossible. What- other ex-
planation can I infer? What other ex-
planation is needed? It's ample, It
covers everything,-and I've no warrant
to complain—God knows!" - 4
"But!—" she began, When he cut
ehort.
"There's one thing I don't under-
stand at all!" he protested. "If that
were so, if it Was your repugnance for
criminal association—why did you go
back to Bannon?"
She started and glanced at him fur-
tively, a frightened glance.
"You knew that?" "
"I saw you—last night—followed
you from. Vial's to the Elysee P^Jace
hotel."
"And yon thought," she flash*! toa
vibrant voice—"you thought I was in
such company of my own choice!"
"You didn't seem altogether down-
cast," he countered. "Do you wish me
to understand he had recaptured you
—that you were with him against your
will?"
"No," she said slowly. "No: I re-
turned to him voluntarily, knowing
perfectly what I was about."
"Through fear of him—"
"No. I can't claim that."
"Rather than me—"
"You'll never understand," she told
him a little wearily. "It was a matter
of duty. I had to go back—I had to!"
rief voice trailed off brokenly into a
little sob. But as, moved beyond his
strength to resist, Lanyard put forth a
hand to take the white-gloved one
resting on the cushion beside her, she
withdrew it with a swift gesture of
denial.
"No!" she cried. "Please! You
mustn't do that. You only make it
harder."
"But you love me!" ^
"I can't. It's impossible. I would,
but may not!"
"Why?"
"I can't tell you."
"If you love me, you must tell me."
She was silent, the white hands
working nervously with her handker-
chief.
"Lucy!" he insisted—"you must say
what stands between you and my love.
It's true, I have no right to ask, as I
had no right to speak to you of love.
But when we have said what we ,have
said—we can't stop there. You will
tell me, dear?"
-She shook her head. "It—it's im-
possible," she declared in a choking
voice.
"You leave me no alternative," he
said In a voice he hardly knew for his
own, so dull and hollow was it in his
hearing—"I can only think one thing."
"Thfnk what you must," she said
lifelessly; "it doesn't matter, so long
as you renounce me and put me out of
your heart and—leave me."
Without other response he leaned
forward and tapped the glass, signal-
ing the driver to stop. And as the
cab swerved sharply in toward the
curb he laid hold of the door-latch.
"Lucy," he pleaded, "don't let me go
believing—"
She seemed suddenly infused with a
cold,' implacable hostility.
"I tell you," she said cruelly, "I
don't care what you think, so long as
you go!"
The face she now showed him was
ashen, its mouth was hard, her eyes
blazed feverishly.
And then, as still he hesitated, the
cab pulled up, and the driver, leaning
back, unlatched the door and threw it
open.
With a curt, resigned inclination of
the head Lanyard rose and got out.
Immediately the girl grasped the
speaking-tube, the door slammed, the
cab drew away, and left him standing
with the pose, the gesture of one who
has Just heard sentence of death pro-
nounced on him.
When he roused to know his sur-
roundings he found himself standing
on a corner of the Avenue du Bois de
Boulogne.
It was bitter cold in the wind sweep-
ing down from the west, and it had
grown very dark. Only in the sky
above the Bois a long reef of crimson
light hung motionless, against, which
the leafless trees of the avenue lifted
their gnarled, weird silhouettes.
While he watched the crimson ebbed
swiftly and gava_®ay to mauve, to vio-
let, to black.
and
do, he could
midnight; final
the bound
iounda of possibility that his car
would prove a.valuable asset to what-
ever course of action he might elect to he
pursue. .
Toward seven o'clock, with
CHAPTER XXIV.
Apostate.
When there was no more light In the
sky a profound sigh escaped Lanyard's
lips, and with a slight nod toward the
place where the light had been, and
the gesture of one who recognizes and
signifies submission to an omen, he
turned and tramped heavily "USclT
across town.
At one stage of his Journey he
turned aside and, more through habit
than desire or design, entered a cheap
eating-place and consumed his eve-
ning meal without the slightest com-
prehension of what he ate or whether
the food were good or poor. —
When he had finished he fled the
place like a haunted Man.
■ Quite without purpose he sought the
machine shop wh$re he had left his
car. J
He had no plans; but it was in his
minds, a murderous thought, that be-
lore another day dawned,he- might
come face to face with Bannon.
Meanwhile he would go to work. He
could • think -Out his problems while
driving his cab as well as in seclusion;
tVi I - ( r>. i
• •*««****'*
ma-
chine in perfect running orde!f, he
mounted to the seat and took to the
streets in reckless humor—the temper
of a beast of prey.
The barrier was down—once more
the Lone Wolf was on the prowl._
But for the present he controlled
himself and acted perfectly his tem-
porary role of taxi-bandit, fellow to
those thousand that ihfest Paris. Peo-
ple hailed him from sidewalks and res-
taurants half- a dozen times In the
course of the next three hours; he
took them up, carried them to their
several destinations, received payment,
and acknowledged their gratuities with
perfunctory thanks—all thoroughly in
character afidall with little conscious
thought.
He saw but one thing, the face of
Lucy Shannon, white, tense, glimmer-
ing wanly in shadows—the face with
which she had dismissed him.
He had but one thought—the desire
to read the riddle of her bondage. To
accomplish this he was prepared to go
to any extreme; if Bannon and his
crew came between him and his pur-
pose, so much the worse for them—
and, incidentally, so much the better
for society! wnat might happen to
himself was of no moment.
He entertained but one design, to
become again what he had been, the
supreme adventurer, the prince of
plunderers, to lose himself once more
in the suspense of adventurous days
and the delirium of peril-haunted
nights, to reincarnate the Lone Wolf
and in Ms guise loot the world anew—'
to court oblivion even at the prison's
gates.
It was after ten when, cruising pur-
poselessly, without a fare, he swung
through the Rue Auber into the Place
de l'Opera, and approaching the Cafe
de la Paix, was hailed by w doorboy of
that restaurant.
Drawing in to the curb with the in-
difference that had distinguished his
every action of Che evening, he waited
with a throbbing motor and mind de-
tached And gaze remote from the tides
of foot and wheeled traffic brawling
past on either hand.
After a moment two figures, both
masculine, issued from the revolving
door of the cafe and approached the
cab. Lanyard paid them no attention.
In his preoccupation he would have
needed only the repetition of an ad-
dress in his ear ?.nd the noise of the
cab door slammed to send him off like
a shot.
But he received. no such order;
there was a pause; then he heard one
of the men cough heavily, and in a
twinkling Lanyard had stiffened to
rigidity in his seat. If he had heard
that cough but once before, that once
had been too often. Without a glance
askance, hardening his features to ab-
solute immobility, he knew that the
cotigh was shaking the slighter of
those two figures.
And of a sudden he was acutely
conscious of the clearness of the
frosty atmosphere, of the merciless
"V„„
mocking smile, but in a tone of the
most Inoffensive admiration—"honest
and—ah—What shall I say?—what's
the word we're all using nowadays?—
efficient! Honest and efficient-looking,
capable of better things, or I'm no
%
She Unlatched the Door.
glare of electricity beating upon him
from every side. And poignantly he
regretted neglecting to mask himself
with his goggles.
He wasn't left long in suspense. The
coughing died away by spasms, fol-
lowed by the unmistakably sonorous
accents of Bannon's voice.
"Well, dear1 boy! I have to thank
you for an excellent dinner and a most
interesting evening. Pity to break it
up so early. Still, business—you
know! Sorry you're not going my way
—but that's a good-looking taxi you've
drawn. What's its* number—eh ?"
"Haven't the faintest notion," a
British voice drawled in response.
"Never bother about a taxi's number
until it has run over me."'
"Great mistake/'Bannon- rejoined
cheerfully. , "Always take your taxi's
number before entering. Then, if any-
thing happens— However,, that's a
good-looking chap at the wheel—
doesn't look as if he'd runToulnto any
trouble."
"Oh, I fancy not," said, the English-
man, bored.
; "Still, you never can tell. There's
the number on the lamp. Make a
note of it and be en the safe side. Or
trust me—I never *orgetnumber lw >
judge!. Forgive an old man's candor^ practiced host"'he
n|
quiet "Thank ypu,
self generously, op.
"I'll not ask yon
he said with a t'
my friend—and take good care of our
British cousin here. He doesn't know
his way around Paris very well. Still
I feel confident he'll come to no harm
in your company. Here's a franc for
you."
With matchless effrontery he pro-
duced a coin from the change pocket
of his fur-lined coat and offered it to
Lanyard.
Unhesitatingly, permitting no ex-
pression to color his features, Lanyard
extended his palm, received the coin,
dropped it into his own pocket, and
carried two fingers to the vizor of his
cap.
"Merci, monsieur," he said evenly.
"Ah, that's the right spirit!" the
deep voice Jeered. "Never be above
your station, my man—never hesitate
to take a tip! Here, I'll give you an-
other, gratis—get out of this business;
you're too good for it. Don't ask me
how I know; I can tell by your face.
Hello! Why, you're turning down the
ttagT_. You haven't started yet!"
"Conversation goes up on the clock,"
Lanyard replied stolidly in French.
He turned and faced Bannon squarely,
loosing a glance of venomous hatred
into the other's eyes. "The longer I
have to stop here listening to your
senile monologue," he added with un-
mistakable meaning, "the more you'll
have to pay. What address, please?"
he added, turning back to get a glimpse
of his passenger.
"Hotel Astoria," the porter supplied.
"Very good."
The porter closed the door.
"But remefaber my advice," Bannon
counseled coolly, stepping _ back and
waving his hand to the man in the cab.
"Good night."
Without noticing him further, Lan-
yard took his car smartly away from
the curb, wheeled round the corner
into the Boulevard des Capucines, and
made toward the Rue Royale.
§11 ;
chin!" and tilting his glass,\
tied it at a draft. _
Muttering formally, at a <
tage and resenting it, Lanyard
with less enthusiasm, if without i
givings.
Wertheimer selected a cigarette «nd -
lighted it at leisure. .
"Well," h^ said, smiling^ through a v .1
cloud of smoke. "I think we're fairly
on our way to an understanding, con-
sidering that you told me to go to
hell when last we met!"
His spirit was irresistible. In spite
of himself Lanyard returned -' the'S?
CHAPTER XXV.
A Surprise.
He had gone but a block when the
window at his back was lowered and
his fare observed pleasantly:
"That you, Lanyard?"
The adventurer hesitated an in-
stant; then, without looking round, re-
sponded :
"Wertheimer, eh?"
"Right-o! The old man had me
puzzled for a minute with his silly
chaffing. Stupid of me, too, because
we'd just been talking about you."
"Had you, though?"
"Rather. Hadn't you better take me
where we can have a quiet little talk?"
"I'm not conscious of the neces-
sity—"
"Oh, I say!" Wertheimer protested
amiably. "Don't be so rotten shirty,
old top. Give a chap a chance. Be-
sides, I received today a bit of news
from Antwerp I guarantee will inter-
est you."
"Antwerp?" Lanyard repeated, mys-
tified. "
"Antwerp—where the ships sail
from," Wertheimer laughed—"not Am-
sterdam, where the diamonds fore-
gather, as you may know."
"I don't follow you, I'm afraid."
"I shan't elucidate until we're under
cover."
With brief hesitation Lanyard said
more placably: "All right. But where
shall I take you?"
"Any quiet cafe will do. You can
readily find one—"
"Thanks—no," Lanyard objected
dryly. "If I must confabulate with
gentlemen of your kidney, I prefer to
do it under cover. Even dressed as I
am, I might be recognized, you know,".
But it was evident that Wertheimer
didn't mean to permit himself to be
ruffled.
"Then will my modest diggings suit
you?" he suggested pleasantly. "I've
taken a suite in the Rue Vernet, just
back of the Hotel Astoria, where we
can be as private as you please. That
is, if you've no objection."
"None whatever."
Wertheimer gave him the number
and replaced the window.
His rooms in the Rue Vernet proved
to be a small ground-floor apartment
with private entrance to the street. ;
"Took the tip from you," he told
Lanyard, as he unlocked the door." "I
dare say you'd be glad to get back to
that little rez-de-chaussee of yours in
the Rue Roget. Ripping place, that.
By the way—judging from your ap-
parently robust state of health, you
haven't been trying to live at home
of late."
"Indeed?"
"Indeed yes, monsieur! If I may
presume to interfere—I'd pull wide of
the Rue Roget for a °while—for as
long, at least, aa you remain in your
present intractable temper." '
"I fancy you're right," Lanyard said
carelessly, following, as Wertheimer
turned up the lights, into a modest
salon, cozily furnished. "You live here
alone, I understand?"
tly%
, /'the
Englishman added with a laugh, "do
sit down — take that chair there,
which commands both doors, if you
don't trust me." 1
"Do you think I ought to?!
"Hardly. Otherwise I'd ask you to
take my word that you're aafe for the
time being. As it is, I shan't be offend-
ed H yon keep your gun handy and
you? sense
'Quite—make yourself perfectly*
ease; nobody can hear us. And,'
mm
w:m
:
"Here's a Franc for You."
smile. "I never knew a man to take
it with better grace," he said, lighting
his own cigarette.
"Resent it! I liked it—you gave us
precisely what we asked for."
"Then," demanded Lanyard gravely,
"if that's your viewpoint, if you're'de- j
cent enough to see it that Way—what
the devil are you doing in that gat^"
ley?"
"Mischief makes strange bedfellows,
you'll admit. And if you think that a
fair question, what are you doing here,
with me?" '
"Same excuse as in the other In-
stance—trying to find out what your
game is."
Wertheimer chuckled and eyed tha
ceiling with an intimate grin. "My >
dear fellow," ho protested—:"all you
want to know is everything!"
"More or less," Lanyard admitted \
gracelessly. "One infers you contem-
plate stopping thin side of the channel
for some time." *
"Meaning your impression is I made :
it too hot for me?" Wertheimer inter- - -iggjfc
preted with a quizzical glance. *5
sha'n't tell about that. But I'm hoping
to be able to run home for an occa-
sional week-end without stirring up
trouble. Why not go along with me
some time?" ' —
Lanyard shook his head. f
"Come!" the Englishman rallied him. .<
"Don't put on so mueh side. I'm not v
bad company. Why not be! sociable.
since we're bound to be thrown to-
gether more or less in the way of busjtv
ness?" " '
"Oh, I think not."
"But, my dear chap, you can't go on
this way. Playing Parisian taxi-bandit
is hardly your shop. And, of course,
you understand you won't be permit-
ted to engage in any more remunera-
tive pursuit until yofc'make terihs wijth
the powers that be—or leave Paris/'
"Mr. Wertheimer," Lanyard in-
formed him quietly, "none of ydu will •'
stop me, if ever :t make up my mihd
to take the field again."
"You haven't been thinking of quit-
ting it—what?" Wertheimer demand-
ed innocently, opening his eyes wide; '
"Well, what do you think?"
"I think," the Englishman laughed-
"I think this conference doesn't gel
anywhere In'particular. Our simple,
trusting natures don't seem to frater-
nize as spontaneously as they migli
We may as well cut the anarriiiiljMIl
get down to business—don't yott thfiifli;
But before we.do, I'd 1
to offer one word of i
"AM that is-"
" 'Ware Bannon!"
Ill
3sioi£|i
advice;?.
^ : < . % % ° I ' ' v' & tilfl
- ' ^ ■■ ... ; -. ' -r;,''—• ■.
- ....... . .... _ - - ~'T .• : " -.a _ , ,,■.,i/ ;
■ Lanyard nodded, "Tliati§$g
"I say that in all earnestness;'^
heimer declared* "God knows you?
nothing/to.vHj|B||M
played the gamo like 'ft maic
won't see you butchered
Apache holiday for want •
L^'Please stop there!" U
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Buck, James T. The Crosbyton Review. (Crosbyton, Tex.), Vol. 8, No. 41, Ed. 1 Friday, November 10, 1916, newspaper, November 10, 1916; (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth242366/m1/3/: accessed July 17, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu; crediting Crosby County Public Library.