New Ulm Enterprise (New Ulm, Tex.), Vol. 8, No. 11, Ed. 1 Friday, December 21, 1917 Page: 3 of 8
This newspaper is part of the collection entitled: New Ulm Enterprise and was provided to The Portal to Texas History by the Nesbitt Memorial Library.
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NEW ULM ENTERPRISE, NEW ULM, TEXAS
SHEEP’S
CLOTHING
By LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE
........... ssa Author of . A. ' SS
“THE LONE WOLF,” "THE BRASS BOWL,”
Etc.
Copyright by
-Ar Louie Joseph Vance
CHAPTER II—Continued.
The Dowager Dragon glanced fore
and aft; but there were no other pas-y
sengers within earshot, and the ports
behind them, though alight, were shut
and sound-tight. “Betty Merrilees,”
she said.
“You’re warm—as the children say
in hide-and-seek.”
“Aha!” the lady cried in triumph.
“Well, then! Betty doesn’t mean to
try to beat the customs. She told me
so herself. The row that man Loeb
has kicked up about smuggling has
scared her so that she’s made up her
mind to declare every blessed trinket.
So you see, Quoin, you’re simply wast-
ing your time trailing Betty Merri-
lees.”
Quoin smiled vaguely at his finger
tips. “No, Tm not,” he contradicted.
Mrs. Beggarstaff sniffed suspicious-
ly. “I’ve guessed wrong?”
“For once in a way. The truth is, I
don’t care whether Mrs. Merrilees de-
frauds the government or not. It’s
over a year since I left the secret
service. I don’t like the work—too
tame—and having learned all it could
teach me, I quietly dropped out and
returned to my old field.”
“Private investigation, eh?”
“There’s some fun in that,” Quoin
said with mild enthusiasm. “Odd
jobs—I love ’em. They’re generally
so very odd—unexpected besides.”
“Quoin,” the lady inquired with a
change of tone, “you remember the
Joachim collection?”
"Do I remember it!” Quoin protest-
ed with reproachful sincerity. “I
wish I might hope ever to be repaid
for the sleep I lost on that case!”
“You never got a clue?"
“Never one. That was a masterly
job.”
“Has none of the stuff ever turned
up?”
“Oh, plenty of It, here
mostly in Europe.' In fact, -I’m told
tfiaf~JoacKfm has ’reassembled most
of the collection<€ut it has cost him
five times his original outlay.”
“There are, of course, pieces still
missing?”
“Oh, naturally!”
“Well, then,” said the lady delib-
erately, “I don’t mind telling yoir that
there’s one piece I distinctly remem-
ber, on board this ship—-a magnificent
sardonyx cameo.”
“Truly?”
“Would you care to see it? Then—
look!”
Mrs. Beggarstaff unclosed her left
hand. In its palm lay Miss Carteret’s
brooch!
With a wonder!. exclamation,
Quoin bent forward to examine the
cameo, while Mrs. Beggarstaff regard-
ed with a triumphant smile his bent
head. It was something to have star-
tled the greatest living detective,
which was precisely the distinction the
keen-witted old' woman accorded this
man.
“Take it to the light and have a
good look?’
“Thank you,” said Quoin, rising in-
stantly and moving forward to the
lighted companionway, where he lin-
gered a long minute, intently inspect-
ing the brooch with a small magnify-
ing glass.
“Unquestionably one of the missing
pieces,” he declared flatly, returning,
“and, if I’m not mistaken, one of the
finest in the collection. How did you
come by it, please?”
“It’s the property of the young per-
son who shares my cabin; name, Lucy
Carteret. She’s an American, about
twenty, and has lived abroad all her
life. Now she’s going to New York to
join her father, who—she says—gave
her this on her fifteenth birthday.”
“The question is, Who is Carteret
pere?”
,i2’rn not psychic,” Mrs. Beggarstaff
objected. “The woods are full of Car-
terets; but I know none that this child
resembles in any way. Besides, she
has denied every relationship I’ve sug-
gested so far.”
“But we mustn’t forget that, when
found, this paternal Carteret will
probably prove to be a perfectly hon-
est bourgeois who picked up the cameo
casually in some out-of-the-way shop,
at home or abroad. I’ve often thought
that the widespread distribution of
that loot might be taken as pretty good
evidence in support of something I’ve
always contended was a popular chi-
mera—the existence of a regular or-
ganization of social freebooters. You’re
going?” he added as Mrs. Beggarstaff
stirred and sat up, preparatory to ris-
ing.
“The present owner of this bauble
CHAPTER III.
face
still
and
with a mumbled word,
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Do you believe that Lucy Car-
teret is telling the truth and
that she is an honest, high-class
girl; or do you think she is one
of a band of shrewd crooks?
The next installment brings im-
portant developments.
A beautiful, well-bred English-woman, nervous and suspicious,
finds when she boards the steamer Alsatia, bound from Liverpool
for New York, that her stateroom mate is Mrs. Amelia Beggarstaff,
a fascinating wealthy American widow of about sixty years. The girl
says her name is Lucy Carteret and that she is going to America to
meet her father, who has lived there many years. Something about
the girl’s manner makes the widow wonder what’s the trouble. She
is much surprised to find Lucy possesses a magnificent necklace which
the girl said her father had given her for Christmas.
is asleep—and I want to replace it
before she wakes up.”
“One minute, if you don’t mind. Per-
haps you can tell me something—”
“On one condition,” the old lady stip-
ulated firmly. “You must let me in
on the ground floor. I’ll not lift my
hand to help you in anything that’s a
mystery to me.”
“I don’t mind telling you in the least.
This isn’t a case—just simple curiosity
on my part. Did you ever know any-
body by the name of Hicks-Lorrimer—
in London?”
“Bless my Income!” exclaimed Mrs.
Beggarstaff indignantly. “No! Who
is he—or she?”
“I don’t know; that’s why I asked
you—who know everybody. One ques-
tion more: What do you know about
your friend Mr. Craven?”
“Tad Craven?” exclaimed the Dowa-
ger Dragon in blank amazement
“What’s he been doing?”
“Nothing very desperate: only mak-
ing love to Mrs. Merrilees. Think
she’ll marry him?”
“Couldn’t say. She’s a flighty crea-
ture, and Tad’s tremendously amusing.
What concern is it of yours?”
“None whatever. You haven’t told
me what you know about him.”
“Why—of course!—what the world
knows. He’s an entertaining little
man who came out of nowhere to cheer
us up about fifteen years ago. Never
was heard of before one fine morning
when we all woke up to find he be-
MRS. BEGGARSTAFF DISCOVERS THAT LUCY CARTERET
OWNS A BEAUTIFUL NECKLACE WHICH HAD
BEEN STOLEN FROM A VALUABLE COL-
LECTION SOME TIME BEFORE
“Craven, of course! Now you men-
tion it, a distinct resemblance.”
“This Miss Carteret says her father
gave it to her because of its likeness
to him.”
“What did you say the name was, in
full?”
“Lucy Carteret. But when she told
me she tripped and stumbled over
something that sounded suspiciously
like ‘Lid.’ ‘Lid’ for Lydiar eh?”
“Lucy Carteret—Lydia Craven,” the
detective mused aloud.
“Help me up,” the Dowager Dragon
demanded excitably. “I’m going down-
stairs this minute and have a good
look round that cabin, if the girl isn’t
awake. Quoin,” she added with ani-
mation, as the detective, gave her his
hand, “if it turns out as we think—”
“Hope?” he suggested, smiling.
“For my part, hope. If it turns out
as we hope, this voyage is going to be
most amusing. And I was. afraid of
being bored!”
“Then,” Quoin reminded her, “you
ought to be very grateful to me.”
“I love you for it!’ Mrs. Beggarstaff
declared ardently.
Long after dark Miss Carteret wak-
ened. For some minutes she lay in
lazy content, unstirring, wide eyes
dreaming into obscurity. The state-
room was dusky with shadows; but
deck lights bdyond the open window
ports pointed wan squares upon the
white interior woodwork. The sweep
of clean sea air through the room was
as sweet as fresh cool water to a
parched throat. Feeling stronger and
more herself for each delicious breath,
humbly the girl gave thanks; for it
seemed that, with the passing of the
gale, the ghastly incubus of mal-de-
meySftfw^egn exorcised.
Presently/cih^i^fc-of a. pang of
hunger, she touched the repeating
spring on her bracelet watch—an"ex-“
quisitely small, jeweled extravagance,
her father’s gift of the previous Christ-
mas—and bent an attentive ear to its
elfin chime. Eight o’clock. It was too
late to dress and dine in public. But
as she lay in doubt, trying to decide
whether she was really as hungry as
she felt, or would do better to deny
herself food until breakfast, she heard
a sound from the outer deck so singu-
lar that in a twinkling it focused her
drowsy, errant wits.
The sound was ‘Tsst-pssst-psssst,”
menacing in
of his head,
shoulders.
Suddenly,
inarticulate With anger, he turned and
went swiftly aft.
a trisyllabic hiss of which each part
was longer and more emphatic than
its predecessor. Unmistakably of hu-
man origin, though as odd and alarm-
ing as the warning of a serpent, it
brought the girl from her bed to her
feet with a start.
Her movement was a noiseless one.
The man who had sounded that strange
call she discovered stealing immedi-
ately outside the window; his back
was to it, so that she could see little
more than the concave line of his
dark, lean, shaved cheek, and the back
of a long, narrow head beneath a
steamer cap with vizor well down over
his eyes.
Almost immediately the hiss was an-
swered by quick, light footsteps, and
the voice of one as yet invisible, a
voice of guarded accent but vibrant
with indignation, “What the devil do
you mean by buzzing me like that?”
The girl trembled. Unless her senses
were untrustworthy, she knew that
voice better than her own. It seemed
impossible that she could be mistaken.
It was again audible, the response
of the man outside the window having
escaped her. “You infatuate ass! Don’t
you know better than to take such
chances?”
“Oh, it’s all right. He’s up on the
boat deck, chinnin’ with some skirt.
I made sure of that before I laid for
you. Trust me.”
“Trust you to play the fool! Don’t
you know every word you utter can be
overheard in those staterooms?”
Instinctively the girl crouched in the
shadow of her bedstead, in deadly ter-
ror lest she be detected at her involun-
tary eavesdropping—so strong upon
her sensitive perceptions the psycho-
logical effect of this surreptitious pas-
sage.
But her fears were quickly dissipat-
ed, the interview terminating as ab-
ruptly as.it had begun.
“Good-night!” that well-remembered
voice continued incisively. “And for
the last time I warn you: Don’t ap-
proach me again aboard this ship!”
“But—listen,” the other pleaded
and threatened in the one breath.
“We got to get a straight answer out
of you—”
“I’ve given it already—twice. For
the third time—no!” With this the
last speaker strode briskly forward.
Rising as silently as any shadow,
Miss Carteret again turned her
to the port.
The man who had hissed was
there, watching the other way.
She fancied something sullen
the lowering inclination
the stoop of his narrow
Almost Immediately the Hiss Was
Answered by Quick, Light Foot-
steps.
longed. No money, so far as I know—
or just enough to enable him to live
w$ll without working too hard. Nowa-
days New York teems with just this
type of unaccountable persons—de-
cent, diverting, well-bred, and three-
quarters idle. That’s all—except I
like the man.”
“You never heard he was married?”
“He isn’t!” Mrs. Beggarstaff ex-
claimed, dumfounded.
“I don’t say so. I only wonder. Of
course, if you never heard he was mar-
ried, you never suspected him of hav-
ing a daughter—you’re too pure-
minded.”
“Thank you for nothing. What are
you driving at?”
“And if he hasn’t a daughter, who
in thunderation is Lydia?”
“Quoin,” said the Dowager Dragon
solemnly, “I warn you, if you keep me
on tenterhooks another instant—”
“Here you are, then,” the detective
interposed hastily; “but keep it to
yourself. Yesterday afternoon, when
I was killing time in the wireless
house, a message came in which I
read over the operator’s shoulder as
he wrote it down. It was for Craven,
and ran something like this: ‘Lydia
disappeared. What shall I do? Await-
ing advice before notifying police;’
Signed, ‘Hicks-Lorrimer.’ And after
a while Craven’s reply was brought in
for transmission,’‘Keep away from po-
lice. If girl doesn’t return, wire me
New York Saturday.’ Addressed,
‘Hicks-Lorrimer, eleven King Charles’
court, London, West.’ Now who is
‘Lydia’ to Craven if not wife or daugh-
ter, that wireless messages must ad-
vise him of her disappearance? Not
his wife; for he refers to her in his
reply as the ‘girl.’ If his daughter,
he must be a widower.”
After a thoughtful moment the Dow-
ager Dragon exclaimed, “Quoin! This
Joachim brooch—has it struck you that
the cameo bears a resemblance to any-
one we know?”
AMERICAN WEDS A RULER
Alice Heine, Who Enjoyed Unusual.
Distinction, Soon Tired of Life
as Princess of Monaco.
Alice Heine, the only American wom-
an to enjoy the distinction—and suffer
the disillusionment—of being the wife
of a sovereign, was born in New Or-
leans fifty-nine years ago. Her father
was Michael Heine, a Jewish banker,
and her mother Miss Amelie Milten-
berger, who came of a prominent
Louisiana family.
Having made a fortune in New Or-
leans, Michael Heine settled in Paris
after the Franco-Prussian war, and
rose to be a noted financier. His
daughter, Alice, became the bride of
the due de Richelieu, scion of an an-
cient French line. She bore him a son
and a daughter, after which he died.
The son inherited the title, and a few
years ago followed the example of his
father by taking an American wife,
Miss Eleanor Douglas Wise of Balti-
more.
Aliqp Heine, duchess of Richelieu,
remained a widow many years before
she was won by the prince of Monaco,
whose prior marriage to Lady Mary
Douglas Hamilton, an Englishwoman,
had been annulled by the church. Life
with the sovereign prince of the tiny
country of Monaco—noted principally
for its great gambling resort, Monte
Carlo—was not a bed of roses, and she
soon tired of it. The prince was given
a divorce.
Lesson of the Tug.
There’s nothing dishonorable In be-
ing a tug. In times of need a tug is
worth a thousand pleasure boats. It’s
what a man is able to do and does
that tells what his worth is. Good
clothes are pleasant to look upon, but
they are often a hindrance in times
of distress. Kid gloves may have a
place in'the family pew and social
functions, but the ways of the world
demand tougher stock in labor. It
takes overalls, corduroy and buckskin
to stand the strain. They are not
beautiful but they are mighty efficient
when the right kind of power gets in-
side of them. And you are no less a
gentleman because they fit you. That
man is honorable who makes himself
respected by his conduct and the work
he does. No amount of polish can
atone for a mean ideal. And no
amount of toil can lower the man of
honor to the level of the beast. The
tug may be insignificant beside the
lines, but its work is just as honorable
and often requires just as much brains
and skill to accomplish it.—Pennsyl-
vania Grit.
“What Makes It Stop?”
The following communication has
been received by the Galveston News:
“Sparksville—Gents: The gas en-
gine you sent me stops when there’s
nothing the matter with its that the
trouble. It wouldent bee so bad if it
stopped for some reason and 'anybody
knows theres reasons enough for it to
stop. I received the book which you
sent me which is named what Makes
the Gasoline Engine Go. I ain’t read
it yet because what’s the use reading
it when I dont care what makes the
gasoline engine go as long as it goes
which mine dont only occasionally.
“What I want to know is What
Makes the Gasoline Engine Stop. If
you got a book called that send me
one. I want to know what makes my
gasoline engine stop when everything
is- O K and nothing is the matter ex-
cept that it must be a rotten engine,
“HIRAM DIGGS.”
Santa Turns Spaniard.
The whole toy industry of the world
Is undergoing readjustment because of
the-war, and countries that formerly
imported their stocks from the coun-
tries of the present belligerents are
now either looking to new sources of
supply or are making their own toys,
Spain has been among the first to take
advantage of the altered demand and
is making a strong bid for the markets
of Latin-America,
ANNETTE’S DREAM.
“It was the night before Christ-
mas,” said Daddy, “and little Annette
had put a note by the fireplace for
Santa Claus and hung up her stock-
ing, and then had gone off to bed.
“She did not believe she would be
able to sleep at all, for the night be-
fore Christmas was such a very excit-
ing night—quite the most exciting in
the whole year.
“She stayed very still in bed and
she really did try quite, hard to. go to
sleep. Of course she would have been
very happy if she had stayed awake
and seen Santa Claus when he ar-
rived.
"But when her mother had told her
that Santa Claus was on the look-out
for little open eyes and that he did
not like to be seen while he was do-
ing his work.
“So Annette really closed her eyes
and yet she felt so very wide awake,
Somehow she just couldn’t help it.
“ ‘Air,’ she said to herself delighted-
ly, ‘I am sure I hear Santa Claus and
the reindeer. I am sure he must be
coming down my chimney now.’
“More sounds on the roof and then
the sounds were heard nearer and
nearer. Now Annette’s stocking was
hung in the nursery by the fireplace
and she wondered if she would not be
able to see everything.
“Oh, this was wonderful and she
wondered if she could keep eyes
close and still see?" Yes, she thought
-her eyes must be closed. She wasn’t
quite sure, but no matter, she was
going to have the most thrilling time.
She was going to watch Santa Claus
at work.
“At last there was a terrific noise
in the chimney and soon she saw
Santa Claus! There he was, just like
his pictures, so wonderfully jolly and
meyry and gay! She wasn’t in the
least sefcap disappointed. No, he was
far more perfect even than his pic-
tures. His beard was so white, his
cheeks so red and his eyes so twink-
hng. ’
"And his smile! The most wonder-
ful smile she had ever seen in all her
life. She wondered if the worst cross-
patch in the world could have kept
from smiling if that smile had been
seen. She felt herself all smiles. But
she must keep very quiet ! ?
“Santa Claus was talking to him-
self, but Annette didn’t hear him. ‘So
the Dream King is playing a joke on
me, eh?’ he chuckled. And the Dream
King said, ‘Never mind, Annette, this
is really Santa Claus!’
“Annette didn’t know quite why she
had heard some one telling her such a
thing, when she knew it anyway. As
if anyone could have mistaken Santa
Claus!
“ ‘But I mustn’t let her see what I
am putting in the stocking—that will
never do,’ said Santa Claus. And she
saw him turn his back and bend over
her stocking and at last hang it up
again all filled with something very
much like a doll poking out of the top.
“ ‘She must have a surprise, Dream
King? said Santa Claus.
“ ‘That is all right,’ answered the
Dream King. ‘I simply wanted her to
see you in her dream. And her dream
is really true because you are here,
and she is seeing a perfect picture
of you. That’s my magic camera that
does that. I’m taking pictures of you
every minute and ~they pass before
Annette’s eyes. You did not want me
to take a picture of you as you filled
the stocking, so I took your back and
she saw a picture of your red coat
and of you bending over the stocking.’
“ ‘Ha, ha? laughed Santa Claus.
‘You’re a pretty smart old fellow,
Dream King. So now the little girl is
seeing me through your dream pic-
tures, and your pictures are just as
clear and true as can be, eh Dream
King?’
“ ‘They are perfect? said the Dream
King.
“ ‘Good? said Santa Claus. ‘But
I can’t stop to have any more pictures
taken here tonight as I’ve too much
to do.’ But how delighted Annette
was to have had such perfect dream
pictures!"
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Bartay, Albert. New Ulm Enterprise (New Ulm, Tex.), Vol. 8, No. 11, Ed. 1 Friday, December 21, 1917, newspaper, December 21, 1917; New Ulm, Texas. (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth1193456/m1/3/?q=%22%22~1: accessed July 12, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu.; crediting Nesbitt Memorial Library.