text: i r—| I STRAFjE < ■ CAJTE CAVENDISH ■'. * • ALTTHOPI- OF“ '—'* JEj •THB PBVII_'J OWN ’ Agf* v -* -*rr lady of the north • etc [/ B »*: 6£ ANGRY." B Cavendish. B t trend. J>n» H «< t tn t® <*<k»® nt I '-<-H!n< tt» g®. B j. ■• er. Patrick Kn- | - a will leaving 5 ■ ' rt»arity. with - a dis- M in h«® apart* I . t., .<*:'« t-»und. John * r.* estat*. Twa | - ■ortr.a John of th® I - • aStrt ■«• l>*”**. l ® •»? j -, a acmes. Stella I '«« r**‘;ap*r artier, learns k C«ver.diah*a xalet » . * ao* satisfied th* body |’' . . . - • ft* employer | -•• I »y Farris®. city edi- ■ to follow up th* ■ lyj . t.tw of the will Kn- »ki dr>*~ up. al*o ®f John I ■ utuattoa for Ole®t® t _« s .-. A convorna- 1.. . ••■. am between Ce- | - ■■jr er.l »h convinces ■ Jish is alive. ■x« i' ttn of • ••>n»ptracy engt- t to **cur* bin - Celesta knows I , Ned Beaton. ■ twsmaa. to ala* men* ■.. - ■ about to leave OioraJo. and S’el la Is ■ rt - < t - Fa— ** tn pro-aed thera ■ r «« At Hank*!! Stella, repre- ■ st F*”»elf v* a new»pap*r Ir - * • th* * riaintane* of ■ > Frederick <”avea- ■ » Be«t. Mt resents th* ■ reek taken tn Stella by Beaton. ■ r * •“»»s 'sly as a vuttlng ■ w V*t*. and worsts turn in a C-AFTER . —Continued. Lovely for the right-angled line of the morning, lightly released, the skirt, and shut out the waist, and to the same manner, somewhat in the thick, indeed. It was young woman, a fine woman, quite sufficient to venture, and down the street. The hotel was heavy breathing, a heavy breathing, and the rooms she was engaged in at the further end of the bridge, a mountain air. The corner of the river, under the river, was wide open. The door of the hotel was wide open. The clerk pushed open the door, thrusting it into her hand, and she had a startled yash. She had soft-loosed. When the girl, with her rashness, found herself under the influence of fear, instead of her relative, she was under the influence of fear. In the meantime, her relative, with her valise, had been aware of the reality of her presence in that community. The searchers had discovered no proof by this rifling of her bag. Farrias' letter contained nothing of interest except the fact that Enright had also left for the West. He instructed her to be on the lookout for him at Haskell, added a line or two of "ug potions," and ordered her to proceed with caution, as her quest might prove to be a dangerous one. Silas Donovan thought rapidly and clearly, more than ordinarily eager to solve this mystery. It was Frederick Cavendish who had formerly been the partner of Jim Westcott. This was why no answer had come to the telegrams and letters the latter had sent East. What had become of them? Had they fallen into the hands of these others? Was this the true reason for Eaton's presence in Haskell, and also why the late woman had been hastily sent for? Westcott's discovery was not even proven yet; its value had not been definitely established; it was of comparatively small importance compared with the known wealth left by the murdered man in the East. No, there must be some other cause for this sudden visit to Colorado. But what? She gave little credence to the vague suspicions advanced by Valois; that was altogether too impossible, too melodramatic, this thought of the substitution of some other body. No doubt there had been a crime committed. Its object the attainment of money, but without question the cost had been the life of Frederick Cavendish. The harsh clang of the dinner-bell from the porch below aroused her to a sense of hunger. Ton minutes later, Timmons, guiltless of any coal but temporarily laying aside his pipe as a special act of courtesy, escorted her into the dining room and seated her at a table between the two front windows. Evidently this was reserved for the more distinguished guests—traveling men and those paying regular day rates—for its only other occupant was an individual in a check suit. A waitress, a red-haired, slovenly girl, with an impediment in her speech, took her order and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, and Miss Donovan discreetly lifted her eyes to observe the man sitting nearly opposite. He was not prepossessing, yet she instantly recognized his type, and the probability that he would address her if the slightest opportunity occurred. The waitress spread out the various dishes before her, and she glanced at them hopelessly. As she lifted her gare, she met that of her vis-à-vis fairly, and managed to smile. “Some chuck,” he said in an attempt at good fellowship, “but not to remind you of the Waldorf-Astoria." “I should say not," she answered, testing one of her dishes cautiously. “But why associate me with New York?” “Oh, more than a week ago," she said gracefully. He stroked his moustache. “Then I suppose you haven’t much into New York news? Nothing starting. I mean?” “No; only that has been reported in the western papers. I do not recall anything particularly interesting.” She dropped her eyes to her plate and busied herself with a piece of tough beef. “The usual murders, of course, and things of that kind." There was a moment’s silence, then the man laughed as though slightly ill at ease. “Whatever brought a girl like you doom in here?" She smiled. “I’m a feature writer: I'm doing a series on the West for Scribbler’s.” She told him. “I visit New Mexico next, but I’m after something else besides a description of mountains and men; I'm also going to hunt up an old friend interested in mining, who told me if ever I got out this way I must look him up. He was continually singing this valley’s charms, and so here I am. And I'm planning a great surprise on him. And, of course, I'm literally drinking in atmosphere—to say nothing of local color, which seems mostly to be men and revolvers." The man opposite wet his lips with his tongue in an effort to speak, but the girl as busy eating and apparently paid no attention. Her calm indifference convinced him that her word were entirely innocent, and his audacity returned. “Well,” he ventured, "do you agree with this prospector friend?" "The scenery, you mean?" glancing up. Blythe, "Why, it is wonderful, of course, and I am not at all sorry having made the journey, although it hardly even paras with Tennessee Pass." THE VILAS COUNTY NEWS. EAGLE RIVER. WIS. or Silver Plume. Sntl, you know, it will be pleasant to tell Mr. Cavendish when I go back that I was here." He choked and his face seemed to whiten suddenly. "Mr. Cavendish?" he gasped. "Of New York? Not the one that was killed?" It was her turn to stare across the table, her eyes wide with horror, which she simulated excellently. "Killed! Has a man by that name been killed lately in New York? It was Frederick Cavendish I referred to," Her pretense was admirable. He was silent, realizing he had already said too much. "Tell me," she insisted, "has he been killed? How do you know?" Her earnestness, her perfect acting convinced him. It was a mere coincidence, he thought, that this name should have cropped up between them, but now that it had, he must explain the whole affair so as not to nrouse suspicion. He cleared his throat and compelled his eyes to meet those across the table. "Well, I don't know much about it only what I read," he began, feeling for words. "He was found dead in his apartments, apparently killed by a burglar who had rifled his safe." She sat with her chin in the palm of one hand, watching him from beneath the shadow of lowered lashes, but his eyes were bent downward at his plate. "Are you through?" he questioned suddenly. “Yes; this—this awful news has robbed me of all appetite." Neither had noticed Westcott as he entered the room, but his first glance was about revealed their presence, and without an instant of hesitancy the big miner crossed the room and approached the table where the two were sitting. “I hope I do not interrupt," he said pleasantly. "I had reason to suppose you wore unacquainted with Mr. Benton here." “What reason?" her surprised tone slightly indignant. “I believe the gentleman so informed me. It chanced that we had a slight controversy last night." “Over me?" “Over his curiosity regarding you—who you were; your presence here. I informed him that it was none of his business, and that if he mentioned your name in my presence again there was liable to be trouble. We scrapped it out." “You—you scrapped it out? You mean there was a fight over me—a barroom squabble over me?” “Not in a barroom; in the hotel office. Benton drew a gun, and I had to slug him." “But the affair originated over me—my name was brought into it?" she insisted. “You actually threatened him because he asked about me?" “I reckon that was about how it started." she admitted slowly. “ You are rather rather thought I was a sorter friend of yours, and that I ought to stand up for you." Her eyes were scornful, angry. "Indeed! Well, permit me to say..." Mr. Westcott, that I choose my own friends, and am perfectly competent to defend my own character. This closes our acquaintanceship." She moved about the end of the table and touched Beaton's sleeve with her fingers. "Would you escort me to the foot of the stairs?" She asked, her voice softening. "We will leave this belligerent individual to his own company." Neither of them glanced back, the girl still speaking as they disappeared, but Westcott turned in his chair to watch them cross the room. He had no sense of anger, no desire to retaliate, but he felt dazed and as though the whole world was suddenly turned upside down. So she really believed with that outfit, did she? Well, it was a good joke on him. Before he finished his meal, his mood had changed to tolerant amusement. That the girl had deliberately deceived him was plain enough, revealed now in both her manner and words. It was clear she really belonged to the crowd, and had no more use for him. He could scarcely comprehend the situation; how a girl of her apparent refinement and gentility could ever be attracted by a wrong, but a type such as Ned Beaton so evidently was. There surely must be some other cause drawing them together. Yet, whatever it was, there was no doubt but that he had been very properly snubbed. Her words stung: yet it was the manner in which she had looked at him and swept past at Beaton's side which hurt the most. Oh, well, an enemy more Or less made small difference in his life; he would laugh at it and forget. She had made her choice of companionship, and it was just as well, probably, that the affair had gone no further before he discovered the sort of girl she really was. Westcott reached this decision and the outer office at the same time, exchanged a careless word or two with Timmons, and finally purchased a cigar and retired to one corner to pursue an old newspaper. It was not so easy to read, however, for the news failed to interest or keep his mind from wandering widely. Who was this Beaton, and what connection could he have with Bill Lacy’s gang? The row last night had even led a mutual interest between the men, but what was its nature? Lacy’s purpose he believed he understood to some extent — a claim that it was an extension of the La Rosita vein which Westcott had tapped in his recent discovery. But he had no personal fear of Lacy; not at least, if he could once get the backing of Cavendish's money. But these other people—Benton, Miss Donovan, and still another expected to arrive soon from the East—how were they connected with the deal? He was so deeply engrossed in these thoughts that he remained unaware that Timmons had left the office, or that the Chinese man-of-all-work had silently tiptoed down the stairs and was cautiously peering in through the open doorway to make sure the coast was clear. Assured as to this, the wily oriental sidled noiselessly across the floor and paused beside him. "Is Meeater Vest-cott?" he asked softly. "That's my name. John; what is it?" The messenger shook a folded paper out of his sleeve, thrust it into the other's hand hastily, and, with a hurried glance about, started to glide away as silently as he had come. He vanished into the dark hall, and there was the faint clatter of his shoes on the stairs. Westcott, fully aroused, cast his glance about the deserted room, and unfolded the paper which had been left in his fingers. His eyes took in the few penciled words instantly. "Do not be angry. I had the best of reasons. Meet me near the lower bridge at three o'clock. Very important. S. D." He read the lines over again, his lips emitting a low whistle, his eyes darkening with sudden appreciation. It had been a trick, then, a bit of play acting! But had it? Was not this brother the real fraud — this sudden change of heart? This note might have a sinister purpose; be intended to deceive. No! He would not believe this. All his old lurking faith in her came back in a flash of revelation. He would continue to believe in her, trust her, and trust that some worthy purpose had influenced her strange action. And, above all, he would be at the lower bridge on the hour set. He was back at the desk when Timmons returned. "What do I owe you, old man?" he paid the bill jokingly and in the best of humor, careful to tell the proprietor. Or that he was leaving for his mine and might not return for several days. He possessed confidence that Timmons would make no secret of this in Haskell after his departure. He was glad to notice that Beaton observed him as he passed the Good Luck saloon and went tramping down the dusty road. The only carriage belonging to the town livery was soon after his arrival, evidently bound for the station, and from his covert he recognized Beaton lolling carelessly in the back seat. This must mean that the man expected arrivals on the afternoon train, important arrivals whom he desired to honor. There was no sign, however, of Miss Donovan; the time was up, yet with no evidence of her approach. Westcott waited patiently, arguing to himself that her delay might be caused by her wish to get Beaton well out of the way before she ventured to leave the hotel. At last he strode down the path to the bridge, and saw her leaning over the rail, staring at the ripples below. “Why,” he exclaimed in surprise, “how long have you been here?” “Several minutes,” and she turned to face him. “I waited until the carriage passed before coming onto the bridge. I took the footpath from the hotel.” “You sent for me; there is some explanation, no doubt?” The lady smiled, lifting her eyes to his face. “There is.” she answered. “A perfectly satisfactory one. I believe; but this place is too prominent as I have a Hitherton long story to tell.” “There is a rock seat below, just beyond the clump of willows, quite out of sight from the road." he suggested. “Perhaps you would go with me there?" “What trail is that?" “It leads to mines up the canyon, my own included, but is not greatly traveled; the main trail is farther east." She walked to the edge of the bridge and permitted him to assist her down the bank. There was something of reserve about her manner, which prevented Westcott from feeling aloft at ease. Neither broke chancery between them until they reached the flat boulder and had found seats in the shelter of overhanging trees. She sat a moment, then she turned toward him questioningly. “I was very rude," she said, “but you will forgive me when I explain the cause. I had to act as I did or else lose my hold entirely on that man — you understand?" “I do not need to understand," he answered gallantly. “It is enough that you say so." “No. It is not enough. I value your friendship. Mr. Westcott, and I need your advice.” “You may feel confidence in me." “Oh. I do; indeed, you cannot realize how thoroughly I trust you." and impulsively she touched his hand with her own. “That is why I wrote you to meet me here—so I could tell you the whole story." He waited, his eyes on her face. “I received my letter this morning—the letter I told you I expected, containing my instructions. They—they relate to this man Ned Beaton and the woman he expects on this train." “Your instructions?" he echoed doubtfully. “You mean... You have been sent after these people on some criminal matter? You are a detective?" There must have been a tone of distrust in his voice, for she turned and faced him defiantly. “No; not that. Listen: I am a newspaper woman, a special writer on the New York Star." She paused, her cheeks flushing with nervousness. “It was very strange that I met you first of all — for it seems that the case is of personal interest to you." “To me! Why, that is hardly likely, if it originated in New York." “It did”—she drew in a sharp breath—"for it originated in the murder of Frederick Cavendish." "The murder of Cavendish! He has been killed?” “Yes; at least that is what everyone believes, except possibly one man—his former valet. His body was found lying dead on the floor of his private apartment, the door of his safe open, the money and papers missing. The coroner’s jury brought in a verdict of murder on these facts.” “But when was this?” She gave the date and he studied over it. "The same day he should have received my telegram." he said gravely. "That’s why the poor fellow never answered." He turned to her suddenly. “But what became of my others,” he asked, “and of all the letters I wrote?” “That is exactly what I want to learn. They must have been delivered to his cousin, John Cavendish. I’ll tell you all I know, and then perhaps, between us, we may be able to figure it out.” Briefly and clearly she set before him the facts she and Willis had been able to gather: the will, the connection between Enright and John Cavendish, the quarrel between John and Frederick, the visit of John to Enright’s office, the suspicion of Valois that the murdered man was not Cavendish, and finally, the conversation overheard in Steinway’s, the torn telegrams, and the meeting between Cléte La Rue and Enright. When she had finished, Westcott sat, chin in hand, turning the evidence over in his mind. “Do you believe Frederick Cavendish is dead?" he asked suddenly. “Yes," Westcott struck his hand down on the rock, his eyes glowing dangerously. "Well, I don’t!" he exclaimed. “I believe he is alive! My theory is that this was all carefully arranged, but that circumstances compelled them to act quickly and before they were entirely ready. Two unexpected occurrences hurried then into action." Enright the lawyer and the blonde La Rue. At the Phon "The operator has given me the wrong cumber," said the man's voice. "The number's all right," said the woman's voice. "The operator has given it the wrong parson."—Boat** BIG CROPS ASSURED IN WESTERN CANADA Need of Farm Labor Urgently Required for Harvest. Rains of the past week which have been general throughout all portions of Western Canada, covering Manitoba, Saskatchewan, and Alberta, have placed beyond all manner of doubt the county of vast grain crops throughout the entire district. Reports from all points indicate marvelous and rapid growth. The conditions of a week or so back, which were decidedly less promising and less many to think that there might be a partial failure, have disappeared altogether and now there is a wave of optimism circulating throughout the entire country. In 1915 there were enormous yields reported from all parts, and it would appear now as if in many places the yields of 1915 would be equaled if not better. What might appear to be a drawback, is the apparent shortage of farm help. The Province of Manitoba, through its Employment Bureau in Winnipeg, is asking for 10,000 harvest hands and over, offering from $5 to $10 per day. The Province of Saskatchewan is asking for 15,990 extra hands to take care of the immense harvest that is certain to be reaped in that Province. In Alberta, the crop area is somewhat less, the labor conditions somewhat better, and is making a request for 5,090 extra farm hands. Interviewing the officials of the different Governments, they are inclined to the opinion that the crops in Kansas, Nebraska, South Dakota, Illinois, and other Central States are harvested there will be a movement northward that will materially help to take care of the labor situation. With the low railroad rates that may be secured on application to the Employment Offices in Winnipeg and at boundary points, or which may be sent through the Canadian Government Offices at Chicago, Ill.; Detroit, Mich.; Milwaukee, Wis.; Kansas City, Mo.; Omaha, Neb.; Des Moines, Iowa; Watertown, S. D.; St. Paul, Minn., and Grand Forks, N. D., will give to those seeking employment the opportunity to reach the harvest fields at a low cost. —Advertisement. Mother's Opinion. A rather prominent old bachelor of Indianapolis the other evening went home with one of his friends for supper. Now, the friends have a six-year-old son, who is lively indeed, and the bachelor was much interested in him. At the supper table, he asked the youngster: “Now, Bobby, when you grow up are you going to get married like your father did or are you going to be an old bachelor like I am?” Back came the little fellow’s immediate answer: “Oh, I'm not going to be an old bachelor. Mother wants me to amount to something." Since then the bachelor has an nonneed himself as a willing candidate for a leap year girl. Thousands Have Kidney Trouble and Never Applicants for Insurance Often Rejected. Judging from reports from druggists who are constantly in direct touch with the public, there is one preparation that has been very in overcoming these conditions. The mild and healing influence of Dr. Kilmer’s Swamp-Root is soon realized. It stands the highest for its remarkable record of success. An examining physician for one of the prominent Life Insurance Companies in an interview on the subject, made the astonishing statement that one reason why so many applicants for insurance are rejected is because kidney trouble is so common to the American people, and the large majority of those whose applications are declined do not even suspect that they have the disease. It is on sale at all drug stores in bottles of two dozen medium and large. However, if you wish first to test this great preparation, send ten cents to Dr. Kilmer & Co., Binghamton, N.Y., for a sample bottle. When writing, be sure and mention this paper—Adv. Saw Too Late. I was invited to dinner by some friends who were light housekeeping. Just as dinner was served, I was relating some past experiences of camping, and remarked: “We had to use tin knives and forks, and that always spoils my appetite. Happening to glance at the table, I noticed (too late) that tin knives and forks were the best my hostess had for the occasion. It was a great relief to me when conversation was once more resumed.—Exchange. Important to Mothers Examine carefully every bottle of CASTORIA, that famous old remedy for infants and children, and see that it is the signature of Dr. Kilmer. In Use for Over 30 Years. Children Cry for Fletcher’s Castoria Fortunate Bride. After a fashionable wedding in Philadelphia, two girls were being discussing the features of the event. Said one: "How did you think the bride looked?" The other girl smiled and answered: "Oh, remarkably well-groomed." 