MISS RUTH ATHESON TO WED BARON GRIFFIN
Former Vicar-General Announces
the Engagement of His Niece.
And, in the next column:
GRAND DUCHESS CARLOTTA VICTIM OF
Ruler of Ecknor Killed While
on Her Way to Washington.
The story was skillfully written. No one had “remembered,” or at least influence had been able to suppress unpleasant comment. But for the Bishop the mere juxtaposition of words was enough. In fancy he was back in the Seminary at Rome where he had first met Donald Murray. He saw the tall young Englishman at his desk, in front of him the portrait of a charming child.
“My niece,” he had said. “She’s a winsome little thing. I miss her sorely.”
He recalled, too, how someone had related the romance of Edgar Atheson, who had later become Grand Duke of Ecknor. Donald Murray had been strangely silent, he remembered. And—yes, it was just after that that the picture had disappeared from his desk. “It is best,” had been Donald Murray’s only comment.
The Bishop remembered now. And he knew why Monsignore had looked so surprised and reproachful when asked to give his “full” confidence regarding Ruth Atheson. He understood, now, the meaning of the quiet, “My Lord, there are some things I cannot discuss even with you.”
The Bishop bowed his head. “Blind, blind,” he murmured, “to have known so much, to have understood so little. Can you ever forgive me, my friend?”
THE BECKONING HAND
The autumn tints were full on the trees in Sihasset, but the air was still balmy enough to make the veranda of Father Murray’s residence far more pleasant than indoors. The Pastor had returned. Pipe in hand, wearing his comfortable old cassock, and with a smile of ineffable peace on his face, he sat chatting with Saunders. The detective was evidently as pleased as Father Murray. He was leaning on “Old Hickory” and puffing at a cigar, with contentment in every line of his countenance.
“No job I ever did, Father, gave me more satisfaction than this one,” he was saying. “It was well worth while, even though I’ll have to go out now and look for another one.”
“I do not believe, Mr. Saunders,” said Father Murray, “that you will have to look for another position. In fact, I do not believe you would care for the same kind of position you had before—would you? I suppose I shall have to let you into a little secret. Mark is not going to stay all the time on his Irish estate. He has bought Killimaga and expects to be here for at least part of each year. I heard him say that he would try to influence you to become his intendent.”
“Well, that sounds pretty big, Father. But what does an intendent intend to do? It’s a new one on me.”