Brown County
Folks
By Kin Hubbard

Being a Full Year's Review of the Sayings and
Doings of Abe Martin and His Brown
County, Indiana, Neighbors, Including a Stirring Tale by
Miss Fawn Lippincut
Entitled

The Lost Heiress of Red Stone Hall
ILLUSTRATED BY THE AUTHOR

ABE MARTIN PUBLISHING COMPANY
INDIANAPOLIS

One Dollar

Thanks are due
The Indianapolis News for permission
to republish Abe Martin's sayings
in this volume

press of
WM. B. BURFORO
Indianapolis

To Richard Smith,
my friend and commander-in-chief,
this book is
affectionately and respectfully dedicated

ABE

M A R T I N ' S
ABE MARTIN

From a Photograph Taken During
Reconstruction
Period

the

BROWN COUNTY FOLKS
A feller kind o' feels like givin' up when he
sees his grocer pour a quart o' oysters in a
pint bucket.

M
Professor Tansey asked Pinky Kerr what
he knowed o' "Th' Road t' Mandelay," an'
Pinky said, "Why, have you bought a auto?"
Jff
I'm alius glad when "Uncle Tom's Cabin"
comes along, fer then a feller knows jist exactly what he's goin' t' see fer his money.

M
Th' feller that's afraid t' kick on his wife's
coffee is up agin it.

Pinky Kerr says he don't think much o'
aviation. He used t' travel with a fly by night
circus.

ABE

M A R T I N ' S

Who remembers th' ole slang sayin's,
"Whoa, Emma," an' "Git ther\ Eli?"

M
Whatever become o' th' ole fashioned bashful girl?
J*
Ever'buddy stood up at Melodeon Hall last
night when th' orchestra played "My Country
What is it t' You."

M
While cuttin' a magazine in a hammock yisterday Miss Opal Moots severed a artery in
her nose. Her mother, who wuz ironin' in th'
cellar, escaped uninjured.

M
T V feller that puts a rubber band around
his pocketbook never pays over a quarter fer a
meal.

BROWN COUNTY FOLKS
Don't hate t' part with a dollar.
go very far.

It won't

JS
It seems like th' more jewelry a feller wears
th' bigger graft he's workin'.

A sadder but wiser man is a thousan' times
more agreeable t' meet than th' feller that
never makes a mistake.

M
Prof. Alex Tansey addressed th' high school
yisterday on th' Higher Drama an' said that
ten er twenty cents wuz enough t' pay t' see
any show.

M
Miss Elcine Bud says she alius hates t' git
thrown out o' an auto 'cause th' papers spell
her name wrong.
[2]

ABE

M A R T I N ' S

A homely girl alius writes a purty hand.
JS
Folks that go 'way fer th' summer er generally th' ones we kin spare th' easiest.
JS
Th' trouble with aviatin' is that th* more
successful you are th' farther you fall.
JS
Tell Binkley says th' saddest words o'
tongue er pen er "I have t' buy new tires
agin."
JS
One o' th' worst things 'bout our prosperity
is that you can't git anybuddy t' work that's
loafin'.

M
It don't seem t' be any trouble fer a vaudeville performer t' come back.

BROWN COUNTY FOLKS
A farmer alius holds his se-gar like it wuz
a firearm.

M
Our movin' picture manager has advertised
fer a girl that talks thro' her nose t' sing ballads.

M
A feller is so glad t' save a dollar these days
that he don't care whether a bank is safe er
not.

M
O' all th' snips th' feller that tells th' things
his wife hears is th' worst.

M
O' all th* malcontents th' non-producer is
th' worst.

M
It takes an intelligent man t9 talk silly
around women.

ABE

M A R T I N ' S

Fer ever' well-t'-do bachelor ther's forty
women tryin' t' associate his early life with
some sickly romance.

M
Ther hain't much difference between bein'
in th' hands o' your friends er th' hands of a
receiver.
Jff
Speakin' o' unselfish devotion, Lafe Bud is
teachin' his sister t' swim.

M
Ez Pash asked Dr. Mopps what wuz th'
matter with Tipton Bud, an' he said, "Oh, you
wouldn't know if I could pronounce it."

M
Miss Tawney Apple will return from Tulip,
Indiany, t'day, havin' been away from her gold
fish over night fer th' first time.

BROWN COUNTY FOLKS
Nobuddy ever asks fer a shirt like his
mother used t' make.

M
TV girl that talks about somethin , besides
boys an' clothes is called intellectual.

M
Somebuddy alius gits th' hot end of a compromise.

M
Next t' a Shanghai rooster ther hain't
nothin' as proud as a little girl with her first
parasol.

M
Th' trouble with a garden is tryin' t' keep
your wife from pullin' ever'thing too soon.

Most fellers' idea o' a good dinner alius includes hot biscuits.

ABE

M A R T I N

' S

Speakin* o* mergers, El Jones, th? pros
perous hog raiser, has married his butter
woman.
M
Miss Tawney Apple's niece wuz prematurely drowned yisterday while walkin' in a canoe.
M
If you don't know anything good t' say
'bout a feller make up somethin'.
M
Th' feller that marries a home never gits
thro' payin' fer it.
M
Hon. Ex-Editor Cale Fluhart says insurgency means "incipient revolt agin' authority"
an' not revision downward.

jgr
Miss Fawn Lippincut is havin' her ears
bulldogged fer a new pair o' garnet earrings.

BROWN COUNTY FOLKS

Ther haint nothin' as hard as a easy payment.

ABE

M A R T I N ' S

Publishin' campaign contributions after th'
election is like lockin' th' blacksmith shop
after a country bank has been robbed.

M
Tilford Moots is tryin' t' git a house built
accordin' t' specifications an' has called on th'
Gov'nor fer troops.
Jtf
It seems almost impossible fer a literary
woman t' do anything with her hair.

Tipton Bud has a new corn shredder.
Hands off.

M
It's goin' to be mighty expensive t' live t' a
ripe old age.
JS
A boy's best friend is his mother, but his
father buys his clothes.

BROWN COUNTY FOLKS
Tendycitis never killed nobuddy till th' doctors found out what caused it.

M
If at first you don't succeed don't succumb.

M
Ther's alius sornebuddy at ever' little function that kin say jist what they please an'
nothin's thought o' it.

M
Half th' world don't know how th' other
half lives—an' what's worse, it don't care

M
I'd like t' see a Christmus when everbuddy
got what wuz comin' t' 'em.

M
Th' greatest hustler in th' world is th' feller
that's raisin' a dime fer a drink.
13]

ABE

M A R T I N ' S

Some folks er alius out at th' right time.

M
What's become o' th' ole fashioned wife that
used t' foiler her husband out t' th' sidewalk
an' kiss 'm goodby?

M
Several English sparrows lit on th' blacksmith shop t'day an' give th' locality quite a
metropolitan appearance.
JBf
Lots o' fellers ask a question jist t' answer it.

M
Uncle Ez Pash says he's made all he's got
an' spent all he's made in th' chicken business.
Jff
It seems t' be easy t' teach an ole farmer
new tricks.

BROWN COUNTY FOLKS
Brooms er so high it hardly pays t' sweep.

Th' limit wuz reached at th' Little Gem
Resturint yisterday when a stranger ordered
rare liver.

M
Th' best Saturday bargain is a bath.

M
It's possible t' look pleasant an' still look
sane—but it's very difficult.

M
Th' papers have talked so blamed much
'bout th' high cost o' livin' that even folks in
good. circumstances er wonderin' where ther
next meal is comin' from.

M
It will be cheerin' news t' those who er worryin' along on chuck steak t' know that this is
t' be th' banner automobile year.

ABE

M A R T I N ' S

Miss Fawn Lippincut appeared b'fore th'
Art Embroidery Club t'day an' read a paper
on "How t' Hold a Husband's Love Thro' th'
Rhubarb Season."

M
Th' party that hasn't got any chance t' win
alius nominates a good ticket.

M
Th' Ben Davis apple, like other frauds, is a
good looker.

M
Tootin' your own horn won't git you in th'
procession.

M
What would a four flusher do without a
frock coat?

M
Tell Binkley covered his auto number with
mud an' went t' Seymour t'day.

BROWN COUNTY FOLKS
1 wonder where th' ole time fertographer
went when he died?

M
Political floppers gather no moss.

M
Some fellers run a tourin' car like they wuz
tryin' t' git away from th' mortgage.

Tipton Bud has sold his shotgun an' '11 quit
tryin' t' raise chickens.

M
An auto never returns without a driver.
JS
Niles Turner says that while livin' is th'
highest he's ever knowed, he'd hate t' go back
t' th' ole days when we used paper string an'
had t' wait till th' middle o' August fer a tomater.

ABE

M A R T I N ' S

If ther's anything in a feller a small assessment will bring it out.

Jf
Too many folks go thro' life jist readin' th'
head lines.

M
One good thing 'bout bein' a man is that
you kin git by with any kind of a hat on.

M
Ther haint no advantage in country butter
unless you know who churns it.

M
Mrs. Tilford Moots bought a beautiful
twelve-payment rug this mornin\

M
Who remembers th* ole time nosegay—a
geranium leaf, a fuchsia an' some tin foil?

BROWN COUNTY FOLKS

One o' th' things a college boy never fails
t' learn is how little his father knows.

ABE

M A R T I N ' S

It's no trouble t' win in th' end,

M
Even folks that know it all often consult a
lawyer.

M
I'd like t' see another good ole-time county
fair with high wheel sulkies an' a fat woman
smokin' a clay pipe in th' north end o' th' art
hall.
It used t' be two could live cheaper'n one,
but now it don't make any difference.

I'd hate t' live in a city when they commence t' parole them storage eggs at Omaha.

M
Th' only time any heart interest ever gits
mixed up with a potato masher is at a kitchen
shower.

BROWN COUNTY FOLKS
In openin' th' campaign here this afternoon
Hon. ex-Editur Cale Fluhart vigorously defended th* Aldrich bill an' said th' American
people did not begin t' eat enough carrots.

It don't look like we'd ever have t' double
track th' straight an' narrow path.

M
It's nice t' go t' th' the-ater once in a while
jist t' see th' folks that owe you.

M
Buttermilk is a good drink, an' what's best
o' all, ther haint a pang o' regret in a barrel.

M
Lafe Bud has lost his job at th' meat shop
'cause his thumb was too light.

M
Nobuddy but a lawyer ever waits fer both
sides o' a story.
f4]

ABE

M A R T I N ' S

When it leaked out to'day that Lafe Bud
an' his wife were not altogether happy an extra session o' th' Art Embroidery Club wuz
called.
Jff
Miss Fawn Lippincut put on her hobble
skirt this afternoon an' started fer th' the-ater
at 6 o'clock.

M
We're alius disappointed when we see th'
grown-up son of an ole friend.

M
Nobuddy ever got rich that mixed a checker
board up in his business.

M
A feller haint ole as long as he kin balance
peas on a knife.

M
President Taft's
"square meal."

motto

seems

t'

be

a

BROWN COUNTY FOLKS
Th' feller that hugs his wife in company
often kicks her at home.

M
Speakin' o' opportunity, Hon. ex-Editur
Cale Fluhart says that years ago he wuz
offered a job o' runnin' a threshin' machine,
but somehow he drifted in t' journalism, where
he frittered away th' best years o' his life.

With all th' newspapers filled with beauty
hints it's funny we don't see more beauties.

Th' author o' "Home, Sweet Home" never
had a home an' th' feller that makes all th'
money on eggs never owned a hen.
Jff
Our humane society has asked Constable
Plum t' prohibit th' movin' pictures o' Roosefelt in South Africa.

ABE

M A R T I N ' S
St. Helena

In his address before the Colonial Whist
Club last evening at the home of Miss Fawn
L i p p i n c u t , Professor
Alex T a n s e y t a l k e d
most entertainingly of
the little Napoleon. In
referring to the Island
of St. Helena he said:
"Instead of this historic s p e c k being the
desolate rock that it is
popularly supposed to
be, the I s l a n d of St.
Pro/#
Tansey
H e l e n a is t h e m o s t
beautiful spot imaginable, rank with tropical
greenery and superbly wooded. Besides the
climate, which is the most healthy in the
world, the island supports a nine-hole golf

BROWN COUNTY FOLKS

The Popular

Idea of St.

Helena

ABE

M A R T I N ' S

course. The river Sane winds its way to the
sea through a beautiful peaceful valley. In
this valley Napoleon spent much of his time,
and those who picture him standing on a barren, volcanic rock looking for a sail would be
surprised if they could see how charming that
favorite spot is. There once stood the old
house of Count Bertrand, through whose shutters Napoleon loved to watch the British
troops drill on Deadwood plain. Napoleon
did not like the idea of being seen, so in the
shutters he had two holes made—one on a
level with his eye when standing and the
other when seated. ,,
Continuing, the Professor said:
"Bertrand's house with its little front room
has long since disappeared, but the holes are
still there."

BROWN COUNTY FOLKS
Things you order by telephone seem t'
weigh less.
M
No matter how mad a office holder gits he
never quits.
M
Speakin' o' sand papered spareribs, you
might jist as well buy a xylophone fer dinner.
M
Ever notice what pretty women th' girls
have grown t' be that you used t' snub at
school?
M
Folks that unwrap caramels durin' a play
should be made t' spend one whole Sunday in
Urbana, Ohio.
M
Who remembers th' ole fashioned butcher
that used t' give away th' liver?

ABE

M A R T I N ' S

Dr. Mop says he alius hates t' see th' cool
fall days come 'cause his wife builds a fire in
th' settin' room stove an' burns all th* money
he's saved durin' th' summer.

M
Lafe Bud never gits through tellin' 'bout
gittin' kicked out o' a hut-tel at New Paris,
Ohio, fer usin' a orange spoon on St. Patrick's
day.

M
After causin' a lot o' inconvenience an' extra work Mrs. Tipton Bud's niece has returned
t' her home at Lilac, Indianny, after a most
delightful visit.

M
Tell Binkley has a new auto suit—fer th'
spring term.

M
Ther wuz a ole fashioned one-ring weddin'
at th' Tilford Moots home t'day.

BROWN COUNTY FOLKS
Some folks git credit fer havin' hoss sense
that haint ever had money enough t' make
fools o' 'emselves.

M
It's better t' hand it t' others than it is t'
receive.

M
Th' school o' experience has no holidays.

M
One o' our prominent society women has
been doin' her own work fer three days without anybuddy knowin' th' difference.
JS
Miss Fawn Lippincut has written a new
polar song called "Beautiful Moonlight Days."

M
Hon. ex-Editur Cale Fluhart, who is well
educated in th' higher branches, is trimmin'
th' trees around th* court house.
[5]

ABE

M A R T I N ' S

What's become o' th' couple that used t'
live happily ever afterwards?

jr
A feller should never marry a girl till
they've tried t' pick out a rug t'gether.

M
Th* trusts know we all want t' live, no matter how much it costs.

M
Ther's lots o' honest people who never had
a good chance t' be anything else.
Jff
Th' worst sensation I know of is gittin' up
in th' night an' steppin' on a toy train o' cars.

I guess "Th' Music Master" is a purty pathetic play, as Lafe Bud cried when he paid
fer his ticket.

BROWN COUNTY FOLKS
Uncle Ez Pash has a son that's holdin' out
at th' People's Bank.

M
Pinky Kerr ordered a head an' tail parsnip
at th' Little Gem resturint yisterday.

M
Tilford Moots has returned Tipton Bud's
plow an' borrowed his bobsleds.

Th' more cultured th' audience th' less you
see o' the first act.
JS
It's almost impossible fer a total stranger t'
git a drink in a dry town.

M
Aunty Pash, though very frail, still retains
her faculties t' a remarkable degree an' talks
most interestin'ly o' th' old yeller clarinet.

ABE

M A R T I N ' S

Folks that er married fer ther money never
seem t' tumble.

M
Ever'buddy's figurin' on th' time when they
won't have t' work.

M
Lafe Bud says he'd love t' live in a city an'
be able t' keep a Prince Albert coat.

M
George Washin'ton never told a lie an' he
wuz also a poor business man.
JS
Some feller stole a load o' peaches here Saturday night an' Constable Newt Plum has jist
returned after a fruitless search.

M
Nothin' upsets a woman as much as th'
marriage o' somebuddy she didn' even know
wuz engaged.

BROWN COUNTY FOLKS
All signs fail when you pick out a canteloupe.

M
What comes easy goes easy—unless it's
relatives.

M
A big tombstone don't mean nothin' but
money.

M
Speakin' o' th' wave o' extravagance, lots o'
workin' men now eat hominy at every meal
that used t' be satisfied with th' cheaper cuts
o' beef.

M
Next t' a Californy railroad folder th' most
allurin' thing is a poultry catalog.

M
I guess th' hardest thing in th' world t' do
is think o' a name when you git caught in a
raid.

ABE

M A R T I N ' S

While crossin' th' street this mornin' in a
hobble skirt Miss Fawn Lippincut wuz run
down by a dray.

M
Our commercial club has advertised fer a
brick layer that kin play a clarinet an' make
a municipal gas plant pay.
Jff
Tipton Bud's nephew has finished his graduation essay, "Life's Feverish Battle Now Begun," but he won't go t' work at th' sawmill
till after th' comet.

M
Th' fifteen hoboes that have been entertained here by our commercial club durin' th'
census takin' were driven out o' town t'day.

M
Who remembers th' ole fashioned mother
that used t' make her children gargle soap
suds ever' time they said a bad word?

BROWN COUNTY FOLKS
Tilford Moots is havin' his kitchen made
smaller so his wife won't lose any time.

M
After all th' care an' worry a mother goes
thro' th' first thing a baby says is "papa."
Jff
Lafe Bud, who wuz married in October, has
accepted a job that'll keep him away from
home as much as possible.
JS
Misery attracts a dog an' little children
warm up t' a bachelor.
M
Mrs. Tipton Bud has a nephew that's a
aviator an' she says it's all he kin do t' keep up.

M
Th' only time some fellers ever mention
ther wives is when they tell how they cook
somethin'.

ABE

M A R T I N ' S

A broken umbrella alius has a purty handle.

M
You can't live in town an' raise chickens
with impunity.
M
Th' meetin' called t' consider th' resignation o' Rev. Wiley Tanger broke up in a fight
over th' length o' Jack Johnson's arm.
JS
Rev. Wiley Tanger talks some o' droppin'
out o' th' ministry, as his wife don't care fer
croquet.

M
Ignorance gives a feller away quicker'n a
celluloid collar.

M
Miss Germ Williams says she made a vinegar pie th' first time she tried without th'
struggles an' hardships that er so often th'
share o' th' world's celebrities.

BROWN COUNTY FOLKS
It seems like jist as soon as a feller gits
prominent and well-t'-do some relative alius
dies in th' poor house.
JS
Rev. Wiley Tanger says that while he wuz
bitterly opposed t' th' Reno fight he's glad a
R'publican won.
Jff
Aurelius Bud, whose graduation essay,
"Th' Young Man's Opportunity in America,"
caused so much favorable comment, is takin'
tickets at th' nickel the-ater.
JS
Tell Binkley run over a little child with his
auto this mornin', but as he hates notoriety he
didn' stop.

M
Tipton Bud's brother, who went West t'
investigate a minin' proposition, has returned
thoroughly recovered.
[6]

ABE

M A R T I N ' S

What's become o' th' little boy that used t'
roll a hoop instead o' a cigaret?
M
High as things are you kin still git too
many beets fer a nickel.
M
Mrs. Celia Jones, who wuz one o' our most
promisin' June brides, is at home on parole.
M
A piano tuner is puttin' a new wire fence
around th' court house.

Th' Colonial Whist Club meets at Miss
Tawney Apple's t'day t' decide on a waist line
fer th' comin' season.
M
Rural delivery has put a crimp in th' farmer
that used t' drive t' town twice a day t' git a
weekly newspaper.

BROWN COUNTY FOLKS
Miss Germ Williams had her skull terrapined this mornin\

M
W h y is it you alius have t' drag people t'
an intellectual treat?

M
It's been many a day since anybuddy named
a child Matilda.
Grantin' that beans er both cheap and nutritious, we are still up agin th' piece o' thirty-five-cent bacon that goes with 'em.

M
Ther's lots o' new auto models, but th' ole
mortgage form remains unchanged.

M
Young Lafe Bud has been offered a job o'
bookkeepin' up t' Indynoplus, but he don't like
coffee an' doughnuts.

ABE

M A R T I N ' S

Politics is jist one rotten se-gar after another.

M
Ever notice how long a girl with a gold
tooth laughs at nothin'?

M
Of all th' end seat hogs th' one with a corn
is th' worst.
Jgf
Miss Tawney Apple's aunt dropped dead
this mornin , while her husband wuz drinkin'
coffee out o' a saucer.

M
Fawn Lippincut says a 8-mile pie is one
you make without a kitchen cabinet.

THE LOST HEIRESS
of RED STONE HALL
A Story of Woman's Lobe and Man's Perfidy

BY MISS F A W N LIPPINCUT
NOTE.—The cigarettes used in almost every chapter
of this story are the celebrated Pride of the Harem brand,
while the chestnut mare mentioned at various times early
in the narrative was kindly loaned by the O. K. livery barn.

To the Reader
Gentle Reader—In relating the life story of
Marion Ellsworth I have struggled hard to
avoid those commonplace conventionalities that go to make
the modern novel so tiresome.
It has been my purpose always to take the most direct
route, regardless of t u n n e l s ,
and bring the reader as quickly
as possible, without change, to
t h e c l i m a x of each event as
they follow o n e a n o t h e r in
rapid succession. Unavoidably,
y o u w i l l have a few hills to
Miss FaWn
climb, but, I am pleased to say,
Lipp incut
no long, tiresome journeys to
and fro across the continent, as I have dexterously kept the theater of my simple narra-

THE

LOST

HEIRESS

tive entirely within a mile square. At the beginning of each chapter it has been rather
necessary to add a little dash of scenery—just
enough to serve as a background for the different settings as the story unwinds itself.
If, as I so fondly hope, this tale shall be the
means of saving only one young girl from the
snares and pitfalls that even lurk in the most
out-of-the-way country nooks—of teaching her
that all is not gold that glitters and that many
a black and treacherous heart beats beneath a
frock coat—I shall feel amply repaid for my
efforts, even tho' I am left with the whole edition on my hands.—Miss Fawn Lippincut.

OF RED STONE HALL
CHAPTER I
Behind the Honeysuckle Vines

It was the month of primroses. A warm
spring rain had fallen throughout the day and
the evening air was heavy with the perfume
of bursting buds.
Situated in a natural amphitheater, the little county-seat town of X was completely
hedged in by almost insurmountable wooded
hills whose jagged crests were sharply silhouetted against the leaden sky. The stores
and bazars of curious architecture that flanked
the old, tumble-down court house on every side
were dark and silent. A horse hitched to a
narrow buggy* pawed restlessly under the
flickering light of a soft drink pool room and
nickered loudly as a few belated rounders
emerged with boisterous laughter.
Far to the east, nestled among the foliage
* Buggy.
[71

A vehicle.

THE

LOST

HEIRESS

on the hillside, stood a sanatorium, and the
rattle of crutches on the hard floor of the low,
spacious veranda that fronted it could be distinctly heard across the wide expanse of pasture land. All was life and bustle about the
green roofed structure, and cries of both torture and merriment filled the night air, while
the wheezy notes of a leaky accordeon added
to the weirdness of the scene. It was a motley crowd that filled the brilliantly lighted
porch. The fame of the crystal springs that
bubbled near at hand had spread to many
lands, and the great hotel had become a shrine
for the lame and halt of every tongue, and the
babel was deafening.
In a secluded nook completely hidden by a
particularly early variety of sweet climbing
honeysuckle sat two men who conversed in
tones scarcely audible. One was a stocky,
well dressed man who had probably lived beyond the scriptural allotment of years and

OF REP STONE HALL
whose white beard was neatly cropped. He
had the manner and bearing of a well-to-do
cattle raiser or an expert judge of hogs. His
companion was a handsome, willowy chap of
splendid proportions and bore all the evidences of a man of the world; a drooping,
raven black mustache of no great length served
its purpose by concealing a hard and cruel
mouth, while his nervous glances and highly
polished manner at once proclaimed him to be
a bigamist or a promoter. After listening for
quite a while to the low murmurings of his
aged companion he hurriedly arose and grasping his cane tightly he pushed the vines aside
and scampered down the steep rustic stairway
that led to the beautifully parked grounds below. Once reaching the bottom he turned to
look back, and as he did so he hissed between
his even pearly teeth, "Fool, we shall see!"
and was soon lost among the olives. His rotund companion sat for some moments and

THE

LOST

HEIRESS

then slowly arose and tearing an advertising
page from a popular magazine he carefully
wrapped it about the butt of a soggy, thick
five-cent cigar which he placed snugly away
in a pocket of his corduroy waistcoat. Winding his way among the tables and chairs and
now and then stumbling over a crutch he
finally reached the office, where he left a call
for five o'clock, as he filled a small granite
pitcher with sulphur water and ascended the
stairs to his room.

CHAPTER II
The Mystery of Tharp's Corner

It was still the month of primroses. After
a warm rain that had fallen throughout the
preceding day the morning dawned on a refreshed landscape. The varying shades of sunkissed greenery were most entrancing; across
the billowy grassland the sweet notes of the

OF RED STONE HALL
red-winged blackbird charmed the ear, while
far beyond the valley the dark woodland was
relieved here and there by bright patches of
red bud. Occasionally the bob white's soft
call was wafted along on the dewy breath of
morn and all nature seemed to rejoice.
Slowly down the winding yellow road came
a light-hearted farmer perched high on his
rumbling wagon. His lines hung carelessly
while his faithful team picked its way in a lazy
fashion. The deep wrinkles in his long copper-colored neck were filled with clay and his
brawny hands were gnarled and knotty after a
hard season of toil. His left cheek was bulging with an overgenerous quid of "old Lincoln
green," and a smile of perfect contentment
scattered itself over his well weathered face
as he amused himself by spatting with unerring aim at the nodding dandelions that
peeped from the grass that fringed the roadway.

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HEIRESS

As he approached a sharp turn known as
Tharp's Corner and half concealed by the low
hanging boughs of a great willow his team
stopped with a suddenness that almost threw
him from his seat. Recovering his equilibrium and looking ahead the prostrate form of
a man lying face downward in the highway
met his astonished gaze. Hurriedly jumping
to the ground he made a hasty examination.
A crimson stream had trickled from a wound
on the stranger's head and wended its way in
a wagon track for some distance down the hill,
and the man was apparently dead. Returning to his wagon he unhitched the traces of his
fleetest horse and galloped at high speed to the
village of Z, where he told of his grewsome
find.
Soon the road leading to the scene of the
awful discovery was black with humanity,
while plows stood idle in the fields and homes
and shops were deserted.

OF RED STONE HALL
Constable Plum was the first to reach the
lifeless form, and with his heavy cane held the
fast assembling peasants at bay till Dr. Mopps,
the aged coroner, should arrive.
After some hours the frail and bent doctor
drew up in his gig. Alighting with much effort, the nonagenarian handed his high, primitive plug hat into the keeping of a morbid onlooker. Quietly rolling back his sleeves and
displaying his thin, pale wrists he carefully
tucked his long, white whiskers into the bosom
of his tightly buttoned and glossy Prince Albert ; then, adjusting his spectacles, he slowly
kneeled over the dead body with all the nervous effort of a trained horse and fumbled about
for the heart.
Life was extinct, and the most careful
search failed to reveal the slightest evidence
whereby the dead stranger might be identified.
Even the trademark on his rich and well made
clothing had disappeared, as had also the laun-

THE

LOST

HEIRESS

dry mark on his polka dot shirt; only a toothbrush was found, and as the prehistoric coroner held it triumphantly in his trembling hand
high above his pink bald head he exclaimed
in a weak, piping voice,
"Evidently a man of culture."
That one so well dressed and groomed
should be found dead and penniless left no
doubt in the minds of the now infuriated villagers that a murder for gain had been committed, and loud cries for vengeance echoed
and re-echoed through the wild hills.
The fragile coroner arose and pleaded for
cooler heads. After the hisses died away he
mounted a stump and addressed the frenzied
mob, saying:
"Neighbors and friends, the fact that this
poor dead stranger is found well dressed and
without money must not be interpreted to
mean that he has been slain and robbed, as
such a condition is not an unusual one. There

OF RED STONE HALL
can be no doubt that the gaping wound at the
base of his skull readily argues that he walked
away from death instead of into it. Yet there
is no legal proof that he did either or both, or
any reason to suppose that he might if he
had."
The venerable homeopath then gave it as
his opinion that the stranger had suicided, and,
taking up the large pearl-handled revolver of
the latest pattern that had been found near
the scene, he attempted to demonstrate* to
the now quieted multitude how easily one
might shoot himself with his left hand from
the rear. In doing so he blew off his right
ear and killed a fat steer in a field hard by.
This fresh sensation caused great tumult,
and it was some time before the excitement
died down and the crowd dispersed, much
chagrined at the verdict.
* Demonstrate.
to show.
[81

(French) demonstrer.

To point out,

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HEIRESS

Constable Plum was the last one to leave
the scene, and as he walked reluctantly from
the blood-stained spot his eagle eye was attracted to a bright, shining object lying just
beneath a clump of sassafras. Picking it up
it proved to be a small silver fleur de lis of
peculiar design that had undoubtedly ornamented a purse or pocket case. He carefully
placed it in his wallet and proceeded on his
way to the village.
In due time the dead stranger was given a
decent burial in the little churchyard, and the
mystery of Tharp's Corner passed out of mind
while the chipmunks burrowed in his silent
mound.

OF R E D

STONE

HALL

CHAPTER III
Red Stone Hail

Since early in the eighteenth century Red
Stone Hall had been the home of the Ellsworths. The original estate had embraced
many thousands of acres, but as it passed from
one shiftless generation to another its fertile
fields and grand old forest lands had been
seized for debt until now the last remaining
heir could only boast of the great, steep, barren knoll upon which reposed the ancient and
venerable mass of stone and mortar that sheltered her and her feeble uncle.
In the past the old turreted mansion had
been the scene of riotous revelry, for the early
Ellsworths were lavish entertainers, and their
famous hospitality had attracted distinguished
men and women from far and near to the romantic spot. The later heirs, too, were built
much along the same lines, but their intentions were seriously crippled by a dwindling

THE LOST

HEIRESS

exchequer, and their efforts at sociability were
sometimes pitiful to behold.
Simon Ellsworth, the last male heir, inherited not only the combined shiftlessness of
those who had passed before him, but also
their passion for the cup and love for the
chase. When not sitting by a sticky table in
the tap room of the tavern or chasing a fox
he was polishing ramrods or carving a powder
horn. When flushed with ale he loved to
gather his cronies about him and tell them
over and over again the story of the French
soldiers who had visited Red Stone Hall years
before and begged to be permitted to bury a
chest of rich treasure far beneath the cellar
floor, how his grandfather had consented and
how it had remained untouched ever afterward.
Many wondered why he did not dig it up
and get a hair cut and a suit of clothes, but
Simon Ellsworth was a hotheaded man and no

OF RED STONE HALL
one had ventured to take the matter up with
him. His wife, to whom he was tenderly attached, faded and died when their only child,

The Tale of the Hidden Treasure
a daughter, was but a babe, and Simon Ellsworth, whose great grief had destroyed his
mind, wandered away to parts unknown.

THE

LOST

HEIRESS

Marion Ellsworth was now a beautiful gazelle-eyed girl of eighteen who lived solely
upon a small annuity settled upon her by the
good aunt who had tenderly cared for her up
to the time of her death some months before.
Marion had inherited, along with the vinecovered bat's nest and the proud spirit of the
Ellsworths, the sweet, confiding nature of her
mother, and went about her daily tasks with a
light heart and an arched expression. Her
only suitor was Steve Warren, a husky young
farmer. While his collar never seemed to
come together right and his hair was cut with
clippers, Marion looked upon him fondly, and
the knowing ones pointed him out as the coming master of Red Stone Hall.

OF RED STONE HALL
CHAPTER IV
The Unflagging Const Me

It is now yellow October, no longer divided
from summer by the plumy sheaf and lingering flowers.
There is a rich hectic flush on the woodland
and every wind that blows pales the crimson
hue or scatters its beauty on the empty air,
for everywhere around us leaves are falling.
In the orchard a few apples hang and the
elders still nod under the weight of purple berries. As evening approaches the landscape
seems to assume a sober hue and the call of
the cow falls on the ear with a sad sound and
produces a low feeling which we are seldom
sensible of at the change of any other season
of the year. Everything is decaying to produce the life and beauty of a coming spring.
It is now almost six months since the mysterious murder near Tharp's Corner startled
the little community, and still not the faintest
semblance of a clew presented itself.

THE

LOST

HEIRESS

Poor old Constable Plum is now but a
wavering shadow of his former self. Ever
since the bright spring morning when he
walked slowly away from the blood-stained
highway he has known no rest, and during the
long, dreary interval he has made many fruitless pilgrimages to where nobody knows, returning each time with a few new lines of
despair and several pounds lighter. His whole
heart and soul are wrapped up in the solving
of the crime. Visiting strangers are watched
closely and often detained and carefully questioned. Indeed not a few embarrassments are
the result of the unflagging zealousness of the
tireless constable. As time goes on and the
mystery deepens the aged sleuth rattles like a
dried pod as he glides softly in and out of the
alleys, and many and ludicrous are the disguises he assumes as he sits in the tavern
office and eyes the guests as they arrive and
depart, often changing his whiskers in their
very presence with a deftness that defies detection.

OF RED STONE HALL
CHAPTER V
Gerald Leigh Appears

It was a fine morning in October and the
brilliant foliage of the hills was fast thinning
out. T h e m e a d o w s
w e r e s t i l l g r e e n in
spots and the shocked
corn on the f a r a w a y
s l o p e s looked for all
the world l i k e s o m e
vast tented army. The
y e a r ' s c r o p s had for
the most part been garnered, and the joyous farmers s t o o d in
clumps about the tiny
t r a d i n g p l a c e s and
A Consummate
talked of the bountiful
Scamp
yield.
As the old yellow bus, piled high with
trunks and bags, rolled up and halted in front
[9]

THE

LOST

HEIRESS

of the Valley House a solitary* passenger
alighted, and pushing his way through the
crowd of curious villagers he entered the hostelry and approached the desk, where he hurriedly grasped a pen and dashed across the
register with a firm but graceful hand the
name, "Gerald Leigh, New York." After giving some instructions as to the disposal of his
luggage he asked to be shown the best room
the modest inn afforded, as he wished to retire after his long, tiresome journey.
Gerald Leigh was the only son of erstwhile
wealthy and aristocratic parents. He had
been given all the advantages that money
could command—educated in the schools and
colleges of European capitals, and pampered
and petted at home. His splendid educational
attainments together with his handsome appearance and natural grace of manner well
equipped him for a first-class lady killer. His
^Solitary.

Just one.

OF RED STONE HALL
father's sudden reverses, which were brought
about by his own mad speculations, were a
great shock to him and brought him face to
face with a situation that at once called for
some tall humping. Cursing his father roundly
he left his mortgaged roof vowing that the
world should pay for his predicament—and
pay well—and he launched forth on a career
of loot and crime.
Never before had anyone appeared in the
village that seemed so distinctly and thoroughly out of drawing with its environments as
dashing Gerald Leigh. At first there was a
flutter and then a general shrinking from his
very presence. However, it was short lived,
for this affable scoundrel by his masterly style
of pitching soon won favor and fairly slipped
into the confidence and good graces of all—
high and low. Even Constable Newt Plum
fell an easy victim under the charm of this

THE LOST

HEIRESS

genial, captivating villain, beneath whose glossy veneer there lurked a murderous heart.
Gerald Leigh soon became a familiar figure
as he rode about the village or along the country lanes on his spirited chestnut mare with all
the ease and manner of a prince. He knew
every crook and crevice of Red Stone Hall, of
the rich treasure that lay hidden beneath the
old ruin and of the valuable ore deposits that
honeycombed the somber clay knoll from
which it reared its crumbling chimney pots.
He, too, had seen Marion Ellsworth, the proud
rustic beauty and only heir to the tumbledown, debt-burdened estate, which he intended
to have as his own, come what might.

OF RED STONE HALL
CHAPTER VI
The First Meeting

Autumn still has one out-of-door scene both
interesting and beautiful and pleasant to walk
through, and that is the pumpkin harvest, the
last ingathering of the year that finds employment for the cheery farmer folk; nor is there
many prettier American pictures to be seen
than a well-managed pumpkin plantation. The
drowsy odor of the pumpkin,* so different
from that of new mown hay and the hawthorn
bud, is very soothing. What a splendid motion there is to the golden-colored fruit as it
rolls away from some careless farmer lad and
plunges down the steep brown hill, scattering
the cornstalks pell-mell that stand like sentinels in its path until it reaches its goal in some
sylvan retreat near the rail fence.
* Pumpkin. A deciduous,* trailing plant and its fruit.
*Deciduous. Falling off; applied to leaves that fall.

THE

LOST

HEIRESS

Merry people, too, are the pumpkin pickers,
whether at their work or going or coming from
the fields.
It was on a bright morning in October, just
cool enough to be bracing and to bring the
rose bloom to the cheek, that lovely Marion
Ellsworth skipped with a light heart on her
way to the stile to meet Steve Warren. Her
lithe, girlish form, clad in pink chambray,
swayed to and fro as she fairly danced through
the tall, wet grass, stopping now and then to
pluck some dainty flower that had escaped the
blighting hand of the early frost. Her wealth
of golden hair hung in a fluffy mass from her
well-poised head and her red lips smiled as
she approached the trysting place near the
wild, long-neglected orchard.
As she freed herself from a great tangle of
wild grape vines that impeded her progress
she stood face to face with Gerald Leigh.
She drew back with a startled, half pleased

OF RED STONE HALL
look, and in another instant made bold to dash
by him, when his strong arm held her a willing captive. "Ah, fairest flower, don't be
startled," said he as he raised his English riding hat and displayed his perfect brow and
raven hair. "I have quite lost my way to the
village," he continued as he stooped to look
into her downcast face.
After releasing her well-rounded arm he
followed Marion to a small eminence from
which they could see the moss-covered roof
of the town hall.
"There, sir, is the village," she said falteringly as she tried to hide the crimson flush
that had rushed to her face. Thanking her as
he twirled his crop carelessly, Gerald Leigh
replaced his hat and retraced his steps to his
restless chestnut mount and was soon dashing
down the hill to the road.
Trembling with emotion as her pretty
bosom rose and fell, poor Marion stood be-

THE

LOST

HEIRESS

Marion Stood Bewildered
wildered. Never before had she met anyone
so grand. All nature seemed to change about

OF RED STONE HALL
her. The meadow larks, now clustered in
great bevies preparatory to their annual flight
to the Southland, seemed to dispense with all
business and fairly burst their little throats in
joyous song. Reeling with ecstasy Marion
Ellsworth somehow managed to reach the
well-worn seat where her strong, florid lover
awaited her—but it was a changed Marion
that Steve Warren opened his bronzed arms
to welcome.

CHAPTER VII
Gerald Leigh Writes a. Note

Partly on account of the beauty of the day
and partly because he wished to meditate,
Gerald Leigh had sought the quiet solitude of
the country lanes after his meeting with
Marion Ellsworth. While he loved the freedom of country life, the profession of agri[101

THE LOST

HEIRESS

culture had always been a huge joke with him.
On either side of the miserable road along
which he now rode were many perpendicular
farms, and he fairly shook with laughter as he
watched the interesting spectacle of the honest
husbandmen working in their fields from
swinging scaffolds. Of course, too, an occasional threshing machine or cultivator standing and rotting in the open added to the merriment that now completely held him.
Stroking the glossy mane of his lively mare
he laughed aloud as he said, "How could the
great factories thrive if farmers allowed such
trivial matters to interfere with their happy
existence?"
Then, scowling, his thoughts reverted to
the simple beauty he had met in the weeds
earlier in the day.
Gerald Leigh had known many handsome
women in his day and had survived many affairs of the heart. The one thing in connec-

OF RED STONE HALL
tion with Marion Ellsworth, and the only
thing that interested the oily rogue, was her
inheritance. Aside from that he reasoned that
she had nothing new to offer. He meant to
win her confidence and wrest from her the
riches that lay buried beneath the bleak, ungainly fortress that sheltered her—the fabulous fortune of which she knew nothing.
Returning to his hotel Gerald Leigh quietly
repaired to his chamber, where he stood for
some moments by the window admiring the
beauties of the quiet autumn evening. Beneath him were the well kept dooryards of the
little cottages wherein thrifty housewives were
singing as they prepared the simple evening
meal, while their sturdy children romped on
the village green.
Wheeling suddenly about Gerald lit an
Egyptian cigarette and then seated himself by
the table* and dashed off a cunning note to
*Table.

Relating to or resembling a table.

THE

LOST

HEIRESS

Marion Ellsworth, which he read over slowly
to satisfy himself that it was up to his usual
high standard, as he prided himself on his mastery of English and spirit of expression.
"She'll be there," he hissed to himself as he
arose to dress for his customary stroll about
town. Selecting a brand new walking suit
and a fresh pair of green gloves he soon
emerged from the hotel and walked toward
the postoffice dressed in the height of good
taste and leaving a trail of vile-smelling cigarette smoke in his wake.
Gifted with the unusual ability to adjust
himself to any strata of society, Gerald Leigh
had grown to be a wonderful favorite throughout the hamlet. With Constable Plum he
was the thickest of chums, and they were
often seen together discussing this and that
phase of modern crime—its alarming growth
and how it would eventually destroy our
whole social fabric. Often, too, in following

OF RED STONE HALL
some new lead that gave promise to the unraveling of the mystery of Tharp's Corner,
Gerald had tendered the constable the use of
his high-spirited chestnut hunter—an offer, by
the way, the foxy old sleuth always politely
declined.

CHAPTER VIII
Easy Prey

It was one of the few remaining mornings
of golden October and Marion Ellsworth sat
upon an upturned milk pail* beneath a red
haw tree, from one of the lower branches of
which a rusty scythe swung in the breezes and
made her position at once perilous. She was
drying her hair in the sun, and her purple kimona hung loosely from her shoulders, exposing her perfect neck. She had quarreled with
*Pail.

An open vessel of wood or tin.

THE LOST

HEIRESS

Steve Warren on the day previous and she
was peevish and fretful. It had been her first
break with the rugged young field hand and
she half regretted her harsh words.
Marion was quite another being since her
meeting with the handsome, dark-eyed stranger, and her head was fairly filled with thoughts
she hardly dared to own. Visions of a gay
social life, fine clothes—a life of love and happiness—passed quickly before her as the rays
of the autumnal sun danced on her great mass
of soggy hair. She wondered who the gallant
horseman was and if he might still be in the
village.
Rushing by her childish old uncle, who sat
in the kitchen doorway plaiting a chain of fall
asters, she was soon in her room. Arranging
her fluffy hair in a becoming fashion she
quickly jumped into her most fetching frock
and was soon skipping across the fields to the
village. Stopping at the postoffice she was

OF RED STONE HALL
handed Gerald's note. Her great eyes opened
wide as she studied the beautiful handwriting
on the envelope, and stuffing it securely in her
corsage she exchanged a few simple pleasantries with the freckle-faced clerk and departed for home.
Singing merrily along the unfrequented
path she mused all the while over her mysterious letter, looking up now and then to see
if anybody was approaching on horseback.
Suddenly she stopped and drew back as if to
avoid a vicious blow.
"What if it could be from Steve!" she said
to herself as a cloud fell across her countenance. "Maybe he got the hotel clerk to back
it," she cried aloud as her eyes grew moist
with tears. As she continued on her way she
finally concluded that Steve Warren was not
apt enough for such a trick, and she broke into
a low, musical laugh as she stooped to pick up
a fall mushroom.

THE LOST

HEIRESS

Once in her old-fashioned chamber with its
high ceiling and massive carved woodwork she
drew her favorite rocker to the latticed window and slowly withdrew the lavender scented
note from her bodice and timidly broke the
seal. In an instant a low, muffled shriek followed and poor Marion fell back limp and lifeless among the cushions of her antique chair.
Presently her eyes opened and a faint smile
played about her pale lips as she arose and
half reeled to a little mirror framed with varnished pine cones, where she surveyed herself
long and critically.
"Am I indeed so beautiful?" she said aloud
as she noted every line of her oval face, which
had now quite recovered its usual radiant
glow. Slowly turning about she threw herself on her high quilted couch and said, half
sobbing and half laughing, "Yes, I will meet
him."
As this resolution died on her lips Marion

OF RED STONE HALL
Ellsworth sank into a peaceful slumber and
dreamed of the dashing deceiver that had now
entered her life.

CHAPTER IX
Under the Sycamore

It was dusk and the blue October haze was
fast deepening into an inky darkness. The
distant tinkle of a cow bell far across the wild
marsh or the rustle of some feathered songster
among the dry leaves on the boughs high
above was all that marred the quiet stillness,
while the great golden moon was just peeping from behind the left wing of Red Stone
Hall.
Gerald Leigh was taking his leisure as he
rode through the shadows of the lonely road
on his proud, high-headed steed. Holding his
[ii]

THE

LOST

HEIRESS

cigarette between his tapering gloved ringers
he half smiled as the blue smoke rings arose
from his hard mouth and scattered themselves
on the evening air like long imprisoned birds
set free. He had slackened his pace to give
the moon a chance, for he well knew that his
finely chiseled features appeared to best advantage in the soft white light of pale Luna.
Indeed there were few effects that Gerald
Leigh had not studied, for he was a born artist
as well as a finished scoundrel.
Marion Ellsworth at this moment was fretting and fuming before her mirror. With the
last dash of violet talcum she sank into her
chair for a breathing spell.
How glowingly beautiful she looked in her
simple gown as the color played about her perfect temples. As she arose her full lips wore
a smile of disdain as she placed a cheap gold
ring with a purple set, that Steve Warren had
given her, upon her tall cherry bureau. Stand-

OF RED STONE HALL
ing for a few moments as if seized by indecision she silently left her chamber and quietly
closed the door and noiselessly stole out of the
cold, gray mansion and through the orchard
and across the field to the giant sycamore that
stood by the entrance to the estate near the
main road. Here in the gloomy shadows she
patiently stood and listened until the iron-shod
hoofs of a horse were heard on the hard, dry
road leading over the brow of the hill but a
short distance in the offing.*
"It must be he," she falteringly said half
aloud as she sidestepped an owl that swished
by her.
Presently Gerald Leigh dashed up and, with
a deep breath of satisfaction, drew rein and
dismounted. Rushing to Marion's side he
threw his arms about her trembling form and
said:
*Offing.

Some distance away.

THE LOST

HEIRESS

"My angel, how I have longed for this
hour."
Marion managed to squeeze out of the fervent embrace of the gallant home-wrecker, but
not until she felt his hot cigarette breath on
her neck.
They strolled up and down a lonely shaded
path until far into the night, Gerald talking
tenderly all the while of the beauty of the autumn night, of love and the kind Providence
that had thrown them together. Poor Marion,
she was quite captivated by his rich, deep, mellow voice and gentleness, and eagerly drank
in every word that Gerald uttered, occasionally venturing some trifling remark in her prettiest manner.
It was a highly successful first meeting
taken from any angle, and when Marion
reached her room she was all in a pretty flutter. She sat down by her window and it was

OF RED STONE HALL
fast turning day when she was awakened by
the clarion notes of the old family rooster.
Gerald Leigh rode slowly back to the village. As he passed through the tangle of underbrush into the open the moon's rays lit up
his romantic face and showed a smile of fiendish satisfaction.
It was a great night's work for Gerald
Leigh, great as had been others in his wild
life. He had learned many new things about
Red Stone Hall and, best of all, he had won
the love and confidence of the girl that stood
between him and the coveted prize.
"The little fool," he hissed as he lit a fresh
cigarette and gave rein to his charger.

THE

LOST

HEIRESS

CHAPTER X
Laying the Lines

It was a dismal, rainy November day—and
a day, too, well suited to the dark, ugly
thoughts that filled the mind of Gerald Leigh
as he sat in his room clothed in a rich crimson
bath robe smoking innumerable cigarettes. As
the rain beat furiously against his window he
arose and watched the drenched and downcast
fowls as they skulked about the barn yard below and sought shelter beneath the narrow
eaves of a low shed that stood therein. Gerald Leigh had been much in the society of
Marion Ellsworth since their memorable meeting in the moonlight beneath the giant sycamore that guarded the entrance leading to Red
Stone Hall, and so sure was he of the love of
the simple, willowy heiress that his plans had
long been made for a cruise of the Mediterranean, a trip he had always wished to take.

OF RED STONE HALL
His ingenuity was now taxed to its utmost
with the details that had to do with his coming marriage to Marion, which they both had
agreed should occur on Christmas eve.
It was Gerald Leigh's one desire that this
newest splotch* on his long list of criminal
offenses should be the boldest and blackest of
all, and he was proceeding with great care.
Many schemes to gain possession of Red
Stone Hall without taking over its fair occupant in the bargain had evolved themselves,
and, clever as they might appear to the eyes
of a novice, the shrewd criminal alertness of
Gerald Leigh had at once detected the bungling features whereby the finger of suspicion
might easily point to himself and thereby lose
to him the prize that was now so easily within
his grasp.
"It is an ideal day to plan a crime, old
chap," said he, addressing himself to his ciga*Splotch.

Not given.

THE LOST

HEIRESS

rette, and he walked to a cut glass decanter
and refreshed himself with a dash of rare old
brandy. Pacing the room like a fellow waiting for a long distance call, his brain was soon
aflame with the powerful liquor and he was
becoming saturated with inspiration.
"Ah, I have it," he said, bursting into a
laugh that lasted some moments.
"We will have her snatched at the altar,"
he continued, his face still purple from laughter. Then he cursed himself roundly for not
thinking of so brilliant a scheme before and
threw himself heavily into a chair. The various details of this new proposition now came
one upon another in rapid succession. It
would be easy enough to have Marion spirited
away at the close of the marriage ceremony,
and Steve Warren would be an excellent fellow to do it. Why not? Was he not the
jilted lover of Marion and did he not harbor
a feeling of resentment? Would it be difficult

OF RED STONE HALL
to have him appear in the village on the day
of the wedding and later have him waylaid and
done away with? Certainly not.
Gerald Leigh now set about to arrange for
the return of Steve Warren. A dragnet covering the universe should be thrown out, and
accordingly he at once commenced to get into
communication with the trusty confederates of
former days who were now scattered among
the many great cities of the world. Indeed it
was an undertaking that would easily appall
Scotland Yard, but Gerald Leigh was a fellow
who stopped at nothing to gain his ends. "It
will be a fine story to flash over the wires and
stagger humanity on Christmas day," said he
as he refilled his cigarette case.

1121

THE

LOST

HEIRESS

C H A P T E R XI
Nearing the Abyss

The morning broke bright and clear. The
first snow had fallen during the night and the
landscape wore a mantle of purest white. The
black, crooked pathways of the streams were
clearly marked through the hills and bottom
lands, and around the snow capped stacks the
shivering cattle huddled.
It was a typical country winter scene in the
tranquil valley far removed from the din of
the city streets—from the cares of money and
the cark of fashion.
It was the first real taste of winter, and Gerald Leigh and Marion Ellsworth were speeding along the village streets behind a lively
roadster, the envy of every onlooker. Their
merry laughter harmonized perfectly with the
musical jingle of the silver sleigh bells that
completely encircle the lathered girth of their
proud and high-headed mare.

OF RED STONE HALL
They drove far into the country and feasted
their eyes on the beauties of nature and talked
of their plans for the future. The chill air,
supplemented* by the joy and thrill of being
with her lover, made Marion appear more
beautiful than ever to the demon who rode beside her.
Their wedding arrangements were all but
completed. It was Gerald's desire that the
affair be entirely private, for he considered it
a serious step in both their lives and one not
to be accompanied by any pomp or splendor,
but rather to be conducted quietly and with a
full mutual understanding of its sacredness.
An extended journey through Jamaica was to
follow the ceremony. After their return to
America they would live in some great city
where Gerald's interests would demand him
and where Marion's life would be one of love
^Supplemented.

(Italian) supplemento.

Added to.

THE LOST

HEIRESS

and happiness surrounded by every conceivable luxury.
No wonder great frozen tears stood upon
her round, red cheeks and glistened like pearls
in the bright winter sun. She was crying for
joy as they whizzed over the smooth, snowy
surface.
Marion's feeble old uncle, who had watched
tenderly over her through childhood when he
had had health and strength, was to be kindly
cared for during his few remaining years in
some soldier's home where nothing would be
too good for him. So they drove along and
laughed and talked, occasionally stopping to
admire some particularly pretty prank of nature.
Returning to the village as darkness gathered they dined together at the hotel, and as
they pushed their way through the crowd of
admiring loungers and into the little dining
room the landlord shook his head and re-

OF RED STONE HALL
marked that it would be a devilish hard matter to find a handsomer pair in all the world.
Later Gerald and Marion parted at the
sleigh under the shadow of Red Stone Hall,
and the happy bride-to-be skipped into the
majestic old ruin and started to wash the
breakfast dishes long before the tinkling bells
of her departed lover died on the winter air.

C H A P T E R XII
A Promise

Dark December has now come and brought
with him the shortest day and longest night.
The little shops of the hamlet wear a gay holiday attire, and behind their frosted windows
gorgeous displays of gaudily painted toys,
celluloid toilet articles of impossible hues and
other Christmas wares are piled high.
As evening approaches the cheery forge of
the smithy is seen through the open door and

THE

LOST

HEIRESS

merry children are sliding—as they break the
wintry air with their happy shouts—on the
mill pond with its screen of pollard willows.
Now and then the report of the sportsman's
gun sends up a puff of smoke which we see
for a few moments floating on the air like a
white cloud against the woodland's black curtain.
W e pity the poor farmer's wife as she burrows through the snow, much after the fashion
of the musk ox,* for turnips on the wind swept
hill, while the flag-like sedges that stand upright by the dark mere appear like sword
blades frosted with silver.
Gerald Leigh hated and despised winter
above all things, and he counted and recounted
the days when he should be able to spend the
abominable season in the tropics far removed
from his present hated surroundings.
*Musk ox.
Dr. Cook.

A small ruminant of the ox family.

See

OF RED STONE HALL
As he approached the great battered door
of Red Stone Hall and grasped the clumsy iron
knocker, which was covered with hoary rime,
it seemed to cut his fingers like a knife and he
cursed profusely till the creaking door swung
open and covered him with a flood of light,
when his wicked face softened in the presence
of the girl who loved him madly.
As he slunked down the long hall to the
drawing room he fairly cowed beneath the
stern faces of the early Ellsworths as they
frowned upon him from their massive gold
frames. "Curse them, they seem to read my
innermost thoughts," he said, as he sunk heavily into a broad cushioned chair near the cozy
hearth fire like some hunted criminal who had
at last, after a long, exciting chase, found a
haven of safety.
Finally regaining his old composure Gerald
Leigh watched the lithe, yielding figure of
Marion as she softly played an old love tune

THE LOST

HEIRESS

One of the Early Ellsworths
on the curiously carved and ancient melodeon,
and he could but admit that she was most
charming to look upon. As the dark, terrible

OF RED STONE HALL
thoughts of murder flashed through his brain
great drops of perspiration fell
from his fair forehead and sizzled and steamed on the hot
hearth stones below. Cruel and
heartless as Gerald Leigh was
his heart now failed him in the
presence of the beautiful creature before him. As he sat and
w a t c h e d her he decided that
she should be abducted at the
altar and spirited a c r o s s the
"And Will you continent in some swift flying
always loVe
air c r a f t and there carefully
me, Gerald?" guarded until he should reap
his golden harvest and he far away in distant
lands.
The perplexing situation now seemed solved
and he laughingly arose and softly approached
Marion unobserved, and throwing his arms
about her he kissed her passionately.
13

THE LOST

HEIRESS

Freeing herself with a peculiar twisting
squirm Marion said:
"And will you always love me, Gerald?"
"Always, my pretty one."
"There, now you have promised."

CHAPTER XIII
Ldbe Blind

The season of winter gayety was now at its
height. Croquet, picnicking and other lively
sports of summer and autumn were now replaced by such entertaining pastimes as taffy
pulling, who's got the button, and charades.
At all the merry social gatherings Gerald
Leigh and Marion Ellsworth were the central
figures—sweet-faced
Marion enjoying them
hugely, while her black-hearted fiance worried
through gracefully, appearing at all times the
handsome and gallant lover of the belle of the

OF RED STONE HALL
whole countryside and easily adjusting himself
to the rude, simple folk that hung about and
bored the life out of him.
The wedding was now just in the offing
and the days were speeding swiftly. Marion's
dressmakers were working 'way into the night
that no last moment hitch might cause any
vexatious delay. Gerald Leigh, too, was busy
not only into the nights but all through the
dark, tedious days. Steve Warren had at last
been located in Honolulu and a swift mail
steamer had been chartered and was plowing
her way through the treacherous blue waters
of the peaceful Pacific bearing him home at an
incredible speed. Things were turning fine
for Gerald Leigh, and the daily advices from
his horde of unscrupulous confederates kept
him in a constant state of good cheer, a fact
that was generally remarked about his lodgings. Around this hostelry he was looked
upon as a gentleman of rare ability—not only

THE LOST

HEIRESS

a skilled checker player but a wizard at pool
as well.
Marion had deeded Red Stone Hall and the
yellow knoll upon which it stood to Gerald,
and she could scarcely wait till the time should
come when she could deliver it, along with
her life and happiness, into the hands of the
man her love for whom was fast consuming
her.
She often stopped while engaged in her simple duties about the household to laugh at her
old silly fondness for Steve Warren—how she
had trailed through the long grass, wet with
dew, to talk and blush before the rough country bumpkin as he leaned upon his plow,* of
the odor of pigs and gummy harness that at
all times hung about him—in parlor or furrow
alike.
From her chamber window Marion could
see on the crest of upland where the orchards
•Plow.

A field implement.

OF RED STONE HALL
thrive above the oaks, in shelving distance, the
little cottage Steve Warren had built for her
and him. But never once in all the many times
she had looked at it had she known one single
pang of regret.
Poor Marion, she was not only drunk with
happiness^—she was soused!

C H A P T E R XIV
A Cloud Appears

It was a biting cold Sabbath morning and
the snow covered housetops glistened in the
deceitful December sun.
A straggling, motley pageant of God-fearing peasants filed slowly up the steep, icy pathway to the little church on the hill that huddled snugly among the low, white mounds and
evergreens, now drooping under their burden
of snow. The wild, hesitating peals from the

THE LOST

HEIRESS

belfry tower seemed to penetrate the remotest
corners of the earth so sharp and distinct did
they reverberate across the bleak lowlands in
the cold, clear atmosphere.
On this particular Sunday morning Gerald
Leigh had been asked to fill the pulpit. After
the rosy-cheeked choir was seated and the last
soft, soothing notes of the organ had died
away he arose pale and handsome. He talked
of the joy of living and the comfort and sweetness of religion—of the promised reunions in
the great beyond with loved ones who had
been called before. Indeed it was a masterful sermon, beautiful to listen to and wonderfully delivered—a sermon that caused much
sniffling and sobbing among the folk that sat
thrilled before this eloquent deceiver.
At the close of the services Gerald Leigh
started the contributions with a crisp raised
bill and then joined Marion in the vestibule.
How proud she was when the congregation

OF RED STONE HALL
gathered about them and told Gerald how helpful and impressive his words had been and how
he had missed his calling.
On their way home Gerald was solemn and
uncommunicative.
He was worrying and
studying over that part of his desperate game
that had to do with Steve Warren's return—
how he was to be kept in ignorance of Marion's
marriage—how he should be decoyed to the
old mill and there murdered. How these details were to be managed might well cause
him uneasiness since they were to be most
important factors in the final chapter of his
nefarious plot.
Poor, foolish Marion! she attributed his
moodiness to the holiness of the day. Oh,
love! how sightless.
After Gerald had left Marion at the threshold of Red Stone Hall she soon found herself
with the whole short December afternoon on
her hands and retired to her chamber to rum-

THE LOST

HEIRESS

mage among the sacred belongings of her dead
mother which had for many years remained
undisturbed in an old chest.
Gently Marion raised the cumbersome lid
and there, carefully folded, lay her mother's
grosgrain wedding dress just as she had fondly
placed it away years before. Under it she
found a little box covered with flowered paper
and tied with a faded silk ribbon. As she
reverently opened it the odor of dried roses
filled the room. It contained her mother's
hoop earrings and two daguerreotype portraits
—one of her father taken in young manhood
with his face reclining in his left hand, on the
second finger of which was a massive ring
which the artist had cunningly touched up
with bright gold foil; her mother's portrait,
too, had been taken in her young days and was
encased in a heavy brooch, on the back of
which was clumsily soldered a thick brass pin.
Marion's eyes filled with tears as she studied

OF RED STONE HALL
the sweet, gentle countenance, which so closely resembled her own, and she thought of her
mother's lonely, unhappy life.
These treasures Marion wished to take with
her, and as she arose a feeling of distrust crept
over her. She endeavored to cheer herself by
recalling Gerald's many thoughtful little attentions and expressions of tenderest love—things
that had made her engagement days so happy,
but try as she might she could not dispel the
gloomy forebodings that had now quite taken
possession of her, and she sobbed herself to
sleep.
Slowly the shadows lengthened; the light
waned; the glare of the snowy hills was softened and the outlines of Steve Warren's empty
cottage in the far distance grew dim.
The clouds were gathering.

114]

THE

LOST

HEIRESS

C H A P T E R XV
A Pathetic Spectacle

A terrific blizzard was blowing as Constable Newt Plum crept along the deserted village street holding to the barber poles and
hitching racks and occasionally falling exhausted on the stoop of some shop. Indeed he
presented a pathetic spectacle. His great blue
uniform now hung from his shoulders in loose
folds and cracked and flapped in the gale like
a huge silken banner unfurled to the breezes.
He had long passed the three score and ten
mark, and his tireless efforts to solve the mystery of Tharp's Corner had been more than his
aged frame could stand. His emaciated condition caused much concern among his kindly
neighbors, and the tradesmen, too, were excited lest his overzealousness should seriously
cripple the business interests of the community, since now the indefatigable old constable

OF RED STONE HALL
arrested and clubbed every visitor that ventured within its precincts, and many fierce
combats disturbed the peace and quiet.

Constable Plum
The constable's face was now sunken and
wrinkled and looked not unlike a dried quince,
but the steel-eyed sleuth kept his own counsel

THE

LOST

HEIRESS

and guarded the silver clew that reposed at
all times in his leather wallet like a miser, confident all the while that the metal trifle would
one day solve the crime that had besmirched
the county's fair name.
It was now the twenty-third day of December and Gerald Leigh's plans so far had
worked out to the letter. Steve Warren was
being held in a neighboring town under some
pretense while a modern airship lay anchored
behind the hills in readiness for the morrow.
Cheery and loving as Gerald had been when
he called on Marion earlier in the day his manner had quite failed to drive forth the dark,
ominous thoughts that had filled her mind
since their last meeting. It was with a heavy
heart that she now looked after the final preparations for her marriage, and she wept bitterly when she realized that she was to leave
dear old Red Stone Hall with all its associations behind her forever.

OF RED STONE HALL
Gerald Leigh was pacing about his apartments smoking a final cigarette before retiring after a busy and most satisfactory day.
As he stood by his window looking at the
bright, full winter moon he smiled and said,
addressing the great yellow orb: "Ah, old
fellow, when you rise on Christmas eve I shall
be the richest chap in all Christendom."
And then he laughed heartily.

C H A P T E R XVI
The Abduction

The morning of December twenty-fourth
broke calm and clear, and Gerald Leigh was
quick to note the ideal conditions for air sailing. He had ridden far into the country for
a last secret conference with his hirelings and
now returned in splendid spirits and was on

THE

LOST

HEIRESS

his way to assure Marion that every detail
looking to her uncle's departure and comfort
had been looked after. He found her sad and
depressed, but his ardent and fervid avowals
of tenderest love quite revived her. When
he left to return to his lodgings her old
happy spirit and courage had returned, and he
chuckled as he thought of his magnetism.
The hours had fairly whizzed by and Gerald
Leigh was once more ascending the roadway
to gloomy Red Stone Hall for what he hoped
would be his farewell meeting with Marion
Ellsworth. Beside him in the rickety hotel
omnibus sat Rev. Wiley Tanger, the grave,
stiff minister who was to officiate at his wedding. His prominent, smoothly shaven chin
was held aloft by a high celluloid collar and
came dangerously near hitting him in the back
at times as they jolted along. The sea bean
buttons on his cuffs, which were of the same
inflammable material as his collar, rattled like

OF RED STONE HALL
hail with every motion of the old-fashioned
vehicle as it rolled over the rough, icy surface.
The strong, foul odor of Gerald's imported
cigarette quite stifled the ashen faced preacher,
and as they alighted in the dooryard of the
ancient and venerable mass of stone and mortar he sniffed the fresh, bracing air like a skittish colt.
They were ushered into the drawing room
by a prim neighbor woman who had kindly assisted Marion through the worry and excitement of the last few hours and who was to be
the only witness to the ceremony.
Marion looked bewitching in her beautiful
gown of white tulle as she embraced Gerald
and led him into the hall, where she placed
into his hands a deed for all she possessed in
the world. Returning to the drawing room
they stood beside the frail colonial center
table, which was wobbling beneath a mass of
fragrant roses, while the good minister prcn

THE LOST

HEIRESS

nounced the words that were to unite them
forever. As the last syllable died away on his
thin lips a cloaked figure appeared in the
dimly lighted room and, like a flash from the
heavens, gathered the radiant bride in its arms
and vanished before the astonished groom and
those about him.
Long before any one could realize what had
happened a pitiful shriek was heard which
seemed to come from high above the Austrian
pines that clustered near the shuttered window.
Gerald Leigh played his part perfectly.
Reeling across the room as one terror stricken
he frantically called for an alarm to be
sounded and fell exhausted before the dying
embers* of the hearth fire.
The news of the sensational abduction
spread rapidly, and soon posses of determined
men were scattering in every direction eager
* Embers.

Coals of fire.

OF RED STONE HALL
to lay hands on the villain who had borne the
fair bride away just at the happiest moment
of her blameless life.
Gerald Leigh, crushed and broken, was
carefully moved to his hotel, where his legion
of friends called and proffered every assistance. During the early hours of morning a
low whistle called him to his window. It was
one of his confederates bearing the news that
Steve Warren had escaped, a bit of information that nettled him greatly.
He remained in his room apparently grief
stricken for several days and directed the officers who had charge of the searching parties.
The fact that Steve Warren was at liberty
worried Gerald Leigh more and more as the
hours flew by, and he determined to connect
him with Marion's abduction in a new and
more desperate way. Accordingly during his
next conference with the officers he related to
them that Warren had been seen in the vil[15]

THE

LOST

HEIRESS

lage* on the day of the wedding, that he was
a jilted lover of Marion and that it was not
impossible that he knew more than he would
be willing to tell. The whole story seemed so
plausible that the sheriff at once started on
this new clew with a light heart and a fresh
box of cartridges.

CHAPTER XVII
Hurled from the Clouds

After darting through the portals of Red
Stone Hall and clearing the decaying balustrade with a single bound the mysterious abductor of Marion Ellsworth quickly sped
across the fields with his swooning burden to
the airship which he had but a few moments
before secreted behind a tall locust hedge.
*Village. (Spanish) villaje.
houses in the country.

A small collection

oi

OF RED STONE HALL
It required but a second to strap Marion's
limp and apparently lifeless form to the frail
seat and start the flapping wings of the aerial
monster and guide it on its long journey
through the clouds. Gracefully the huge craft
soared heavenward like a winged specter, and
the whirr of the shuttle was soon lost among
the stars.
Poor Marion, unconscious from fright, was
a willing captive as the great machine whizzed
through the chilling currents at an amazing
speed over lighted villages and cities, across
abyss and wooded hill—moving majestically
on while the moon's rays played on the rippling rivers and streams, or turned the bosoms
of countless lakes into flaming sheets of hammered gold. Like some beautiful phantom
the pale bride in her snowy gown reclined
motionlessly among the rigging as they flew.
Many, many miles must they have traveled
ere consciousness returned to Marion. As

THE LOST

HEIRESS

her eyes slowly opened she was looking into
the rough, ugly features of the brute beside
her. Sitting erect she looked about her and,
at once realizing her predicament, she summoned all her strength and made a frantic
effort to free herself, only to be repulsed by
the powerful beast at the wheel.
Her utter helplessness now dawned upon
her and, terror stricken, she wondered what
awful fate awaited her and where Gerald
could be. Presently she rallied and seemed
to be possessed of superhuman strength as she
made a final struggle to break the stout cords
which held her. In this desperate contest for
supremacy her fastenings snapped, and in her
heroic fight for the control of the steering gear
she lost her balance and was dashed to the
earth miles below.

OF RED STONE HALL
CHAPTER XVIII
The Third Degree

It is the first day of January and soon the
lengthening daylight will fall upon the dim
patches of green and show where gentle spring
lies sleeping.
It is too early for the hardy crocus to throw
its banded gold across the pathway, but the
bluebird, spring's first harbinger, calls to the
"rathe primrose" from the naked hawthorn
spray to open its yellow eyes as it sits huddled up in its cloak of green. The trees covered with hoarfrost are beautiful to look upon,
and the wild grass bending beneath its weight
seems laden with crystals.
It was an easy matter to locate Steve Warren, and his arrest and subsequent sweatings
were carried out under the personal supervision of Gerald Leigh. He was thrown into
the rude jail in utter ignorance of the sus-

THE

LOST

HEIRESS

picion that rested upon him, and there he remained for several days without food or water.
When sufficiently weak from thirst and
hunger Gerald Leigh entered his cell, accompanied by the sheriff, and dealt him a thunderous blow with his gloved hand which felled
the helpless victim to the stone floor where he
lay in a heap.
" W h a t have you done with your old sweetheart, you miserable cur?" asked Gerald
Leigh, sneeringly.
Warren staggered to his feet and asked for
mercy, only to be felled again, this time by
the famous trip-hammer* jolt. As he lay on
the floor he tremblingly disclaimed all knowledge of anything whatsoever. It was the
sheriff's turn this time and he kicked him in
the side.
"We will leave him alone for a few days
*Trip-hammer.
steam.

A powerful tilt-hammer operated by

OF RED STONE HALL
longer till he can refresh his hateful memory,"
hissed Gerald Leigh, and he scornfully spat at
the seemingly lifeless form and passed out of
the cell followed by the sheriff, who threw a
musty soda cracker near the prostrate victim
as the iron door clanked behind them.
Thoroughly satisfied that Steve Warren
would wilt eventually, they set about to invent some new torture. It was decided that
the jail should be turned about so the prisoner
could have a full and unobstructed view of
Red Stone Hall on the hill high above.
"That should soften him if he has a fiber of
sentiment," said Gerald Leigh as he laughed
in his sleeve at the uncouth, bewhiskered
sheriff, whose small, close set eyes sparkled
like raindrops at this newest scheme.
It was agreed, too, that the sheriff should
prepare a tray full of tempting victuals and
place it near the prisoner's grated window and
allow the appetizing fumes to enter therein.

THE LOST

HEIRESS

It was fully five hours before another effort
was made to wrest a confession from the now
crazed and guiltless farm hand. This time
the sheriff entered the stuffy cell with a
lighted candle and Constable Plum, the tottering old scout, approached Warren and held a
pair of dainty white slippers, which had been
found near Red Stone Hall soon after the abduction, before his bruised face and said:
"See here, Steve Warren, blame your ornery hide, I've knowed ye ever since a lad, an'
now you 'fess up," emphasizing the last word
by striking the innocent prisoner across the
face with his heavy hickory cane, which even
in the hands of a toddling infant would have
been a dangerous weapon.
Poor Steve sank to the floor for the fifth or
sixth time within twenty-four hours, and the
officers left the cell much discouraged over
their poor success. Finally it was agreed that

OF RED STONE HALL
the prisoner should be fattened up and allowed
to take his chances with the grand jury.
%

^

^c

^

jj:

^c

^c

In due time Steve Warren was indicted,
tried, convicted and sentenced to be hanged.
As the brave, young, innocent farmer walked
with head erect from the ill ventilated court
room Gerald Leigh leaned back in his seat
near the judge and smiled.

C H A P T E R XIX
Unmasked

February has been likened to a sturdy country lass who, with the tinge of the hard, red
winter apple on her healthy cheek, strives
against the wind and draws her russet colored
cloak about her while, with bent head, she
keeps throwing back the long hair that blows
about her face.
[16]

THE

LOST

HEIRESS

In and about Gerald Leigh's tavern all was
astir as the busy landlord and his good, plump
wife added the finishing touches to the sumptuous feast that their scoundrelly guest had
ordered for himself and friends in honor of
Steve Warren's execution, which was set for
the following day.
At one end of the long dining room a stage
had been erected whereupon the gaily uniformed silver cornet band sat. Just back of this
elevation there hung from the wall, imbedded
in bright bunting, a portrait of the fat, bald
judge who had presided at Warren's trial.
It was indeed a queer assemblage that filled
every chair about the tables while the savory
mist from the hot, toothsome viands floated
gracefully to the ceiling and mingled in
friendly rivalry with the discordant notes of
the battered brass instruments.
After the last blatant note of "Marching
Through Georgia" the round, purple circuit

OF RED STONE HALL
judge delivered a stinging address on the
majesty of the law and then all eyes were
turned toward Gerald Leigh as he arose with
a smiling face. The smile, however, was short
lived. As he faced the gaily festooned* entrance his whole countenance changed and his
face wore an ashen hue as he gasped and fell
backward to the floor. The loquacious throng
now sat in open mouthed amazement as the
lost heiress of Red Stone Hall, frail and haggard, but still retaining many traces of her
former unusual beauty, passed through the
dining room's flag bedecked entrance and
pointed the finger of scorn at the inflamed face
of Gerald Leigh, which now was altered past
all belief by anger and tortured vanity. As
he stood with clenched fists and eyed her
wildly Marion related her awful adventure in
a low, calm voice to the crowd that had gathered about her and accused Gerald Leigh as
*Festooned.

Furnished with festoons.

THE

LOST

HEIRESS

being the sole instigator of her frightful experience.
"The girl is mad," cried Gerald Leigh as

KA

£P,

She Pointed the Finger of Scorn at Gerald Leigh

OF RED STONE HALL
he edged his way toward the door only to
be more closely surrounded by his erstwhile
friends.
With the strength of a maniac he frantically pushed them aside and rushed to the door,
where he turned and hissed:
"My curses on you all!"
As he wheeled about he fell into the strong
arms of the sheriff, and in the struggle that
followed his cigarette case fell at the feet of
Constable Plum.
There was just one little bit of silver ornamentation missing on this case, otherwise both
sides of it would have been identical—and it
reclined at this moment in the leather wallet
of Constable Plum.
"What a supreme contempt on the part of
Destiny for criminal smartness." This enormous trifle—a tiny silver fleur de lis torn from
its fastenings and lying in the grass.
*
*
*
*
*
*
*

THE

LOST

HEIRESS

The proud, dashing, affable Gerald Leigh
was soon in the toils, and a peep into his
trunks and bags brought to light many evidences of his double life and served to clear
up a long chain of mysteries reaching almost
across the continent, not the least among
which was the murder of Langdon Ellsworth,
the father of Marion, who had disappeared
during her babyhood and who was returning
from the West after years of prospecting with
his golden harvest, and who, at a neighboring
sanitarium where he had stopped, had related
the fabled tale of the riches of Red Stone Hall
to Gerald Leigh.

OF RED STONE HALL
CHAPTER XX
The Old, Old Story

Winter, who seems to have been asleep,
shows his cloudy form once more above the
bare hilltops, from whence he scatters his
snowflakes, while the timid birds cease their
song and again shelter in the still naked hedge
rows.
Eager to be spared the cost of a long,
tedious trial and anxious to save Marion Ellsworth from all the humiliation and distasteful
notoriety possible the good county officials
gladly allowed Gerald Leigh to be removed
to an Eastern city where several grave charges
awaited him and where his chances of escape
would be meager.
The new turn of affairs of course brought
freedom to Steve Warren, and he returned to
the village of his birth bleached and thin after

THE

LOST

HEIRESS

his long confinement. The slack in Constable
Plum's uniform gradually disappeared and the
sly old codger was the principal point of interest in the little community. During the
excitement of the memorable Christmas eve
Marion's aged uncle passed away and was tenderly added to the silent colony in the churchyard on the hill.
For many years to come the monotony of
the long winter evenings in the quiet settlement will be broken by the weird and thrilling story of Marion Ellsworth's long flight
through the clouds and her miraculous escape
from death after falling thousands of feet—of
her timely return to save innocent Steve Warren from the gallows and to tear the mask
from the handsome face of Gerald Leigh, the
arch villain.*
2$»

5^

*Villain.

#j*

A scamp.

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OF RED STONE HALL
Marion was sitting again
before a cozy fire of beechwood in old Red Stone Hall,
and in her lap lay a well
thumbed volume of Robinson Crusoe, h e r f a v o r i t e
novel, while in the kitchen,
rattling among the pots and
pans, was the kindly neighbor woman who was nursing her back to health and
"SteVe!"
"Marion!'
strength again. A footstep
in the hall awakened Marion from her reverie
and she turned her weary eyes toward the
door. Steve Warren was there.
"Steve!"
"Marion!"

[H|

THE LOST

HEIRESS

CHAPTER XXI
TJie Warrens

The hawthorne berries are beginning to
show red in the hedges, and we see scarlet
heps* where only a short while ago the clustering sweet briar bloomed. Here and there
in sunny places the bramble berries have begun to blacken, yet many yet wear a crude
red, while some are green. The bee seems to
move wearily, while the happy gleaners dot
the cornfields and contrast strangely with the
rich morsels of color. It is September.
Red Stone Hall has been dismantled and
carted away, and the commanding clay eminence upon which it stood and defied the
storms of so many decades is gradually being
devoured by the thriving brick mill at its base.
No golden treasure was found beneath the cellar floor and no evidences of the rich ore that
was supposed to thread the red earth have developed.
*Heps.

Fruit of the dog rose.

OF RED STONE HALL
Far across the fading valley may be seen a
white speck standing out boldly against the
September haze. As you journey on through
the lazy town and across the parched meadows and up the winding road through the
cool arcades of ancient trees you stand face to
face with Steve Warren's whitewashed cottage. Everywhere you look are evidences of
thrift and contentment. The broad fields are
dotted with shocks of grain or spotted herds
of full-uddered cows. In the barnyard near
the bursting granaries bright plumaged fowls
and romping calves are seen, while brilliant
clusters of old-fashioned flowers border the
beds of ripened vegetables in the little kitchen
garden. Even an old grindstone stands under
a well laden apple tree near the kitchen door.
The dinner bell cord swings in the gentle
breezes, while the highly polished glass jars
that adorn the garden fence shine in the evening sun.

THE

LOST

HEIRESS

Slowly up the long, narrow lane comes
Steve Warren and his tired and steaming team
of broad shouldered Normans with their rattling chain traces dragging through the dust.
He is riding one sidewise, while the other follows with hanging head. Across his knee is
thrown a heavy doubletree, and on his honest
bronzed countenance, half hidden by his drooping greasy hat, is an expression of perfect
peace and happiness. As he passes a strawstack he is reminded of his sweetheart's narrow escape from death, and he thinks of the
long, dreary days that she lay unconscious
among strangers in a farm house far away, and
he silently thanks a merciful Providence for
sparing the life of the girl who is now his wife.
Approaching the well worn bars he waves to
the girlish figure that sits in the mossy dooryard. It is Marion—and she is knitting a pair
of tiny booties.
T H E END.

Other Abe Martin Books
Abe Martin's Almanack for 1909 ($1.00).
Abe Martin's Almanack for 1910 ($1.00).
Abe Martin Pub. Co., Indianapolis.