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what did you do for my mother? Left her to bring me up in utter poverty. Those days of scraping and dry crusts I shall never forget. Then at thirteen I entered your employment and in ten years became your cashier. My mother in the meantime had died. Then I took to playing the races, and finally got away with your ten thousand dollars. Well, how much have you lost on the family?"

"A pretty story," countered the manufacturer, "but it does not alter the fact that you are a thief."

The blood surged into the other's face. "If you say that word again," he hissed, "I'll choke you."

McVey with a gesture of impatience got on his feet. "I am going," he announced.

"Very well," responded the younger man. "Go ahead and do your worst. I know that I am in your power and how useless it would be to oppose you. As for begging your mercy, I would suffer anything rather than do that. Nor would it get me anything. I have only one request to make that you let the whole matter stand over till after to-morrow night. My wife has her heart set on the dance she is giving then, and I would not care to see her pleasure spoiled. I am speaking with the greatest seriousness."

McVey laughed harshly. "And give you the much desired chance to escape," he insinuated. "I should say not. You will be arrested immediately-to-night."

He strode toward the portieres angrily, and Gordon, with a heavy sigh, turned to the table, making no attempt to stop him. But as he put out his hand to sweep the portieres apart, he started and stepped back quickly, staring into the barrel of a revolver. The white hand that held it tensed trembling, but with a finger on the trigger. It was Madame Gordon who confronted him, the whole flame of her in her eyes.

"I have heard everything that has been said," she voiced, including both him and her husband in her glance, "and if you go to prosecute Arnold, you

shall never leave this room." She was magnificent, a pantheress guarding her young, primitive in her revelation as the most primitive thing in the world. The startled eyes of her husband lightened to her with intoxicated pride. Even McVey stared as much at her beauty and dramatic attitude as at the pistol.

"Don't you realize," he articulated weakly at length, "that your husband has done wrong—a great wrong—and must pay the penalty of the law?"

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"Whatever he has done," she sponded, "I love him. I have heard his explanation, and it is good enough for me. Anyway, it isn't what a man is, it is what he is to a woman. I love him, and you shall not disgrace him."

Her husband strode quickly over took the revolver from her hand. "It would be far worse than imprisonment or death for you to commit a crime on my account, sweetheart," he pleaded. She made quite a struggle of it, however, and a locket fell from her neck. McVey stooped to pick it up, in an attempt to get out of range of the pistol.

The face in the locket caught his eye. He stared at it a moment, and returned it to Mrs. Gorden, his demeanor completely changed. She accepted it hastily, anger still agitating her.

"The resemblance is speaking," ventured McVey. "A relative?" "My mother."

"So I conjectured. And now, Mrs. Gordon, I want to apologize to you and your husband for my intemperate acts. I came down here on sick leave from business to benefit my health, if possible, but this scene has proven to me only too well that I am in a worse condition mentally and physically than I suspected. Pray be lenient, both of you, for my outburst. I promise never to lose control of myself again."

He bowed and started toward the door. "I shall likely leave here on the next steamer, but before I go, may I drop in occasionally and see you both ?"

"Certainly," replied Gordon. "If the old understanding is wiped out on

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Across the Border

H. K. Addis

My name is Ahmed Noureddin Harold K. P. Addis. The first two names indicate my religious beliefs. In Christian countries, Moslems are not usually considered wholly human; therefore, I very often do not make use of that part of my name. I was born in Ohio in 1884. Have attended various schools, among which was the Ohio State University. Have traveled over a great part of European Turkey, and a part of Asiatic Turkey. Resided in Constantinople. Was closely associated with some of the leading members of the Committee of Union and Progress of the Young Turk Party prior to the revolution of July, 1908.

Do not get the idea that I am a Turk or Turkish-American. I have not; so far as I know, one drop of Turkish blood, and my sympathy for that really noble race is simply based upon my knowledge and understanding of their many sterling qualities.

[graphic]

W

HAT can be taking place at
the house of our

neighbor, Hagop?" exclaimed biyouk Osman, the demirdji (blacksmith), to his wife as he sat before his vine-clad doorway, smoking after the evening meal.

"Indeed, I do not know, my husband," replied his wife, Halide, as she paused from her task, looking through the open door toward the house in question. "All day long I have heard singing, mingled with shouts and cries as of cursing in the rough Armenian. language. Now and again, too, it seemed that some one would try to argue with the others, but their loud rough voices would soon drown him out."

"I think I will see Hagop this evening and have a little talk with him. Moustafa Fazil, the Kurdish chief, was at the shop to-day, and while there he tried to make me believe that the Armenians were plotting against us. Moustafa says that we should be on our guard lest they attempt some treacherous work here, but I told him that Hagop Sirkedjian and I were too

H. K. Addis

old friends for there to be any suspicion between us. If Hagop so much

as imagined that we were in danger he would certainly let us know at once. Yet in a way Moustafa is right: we Moslems are few, and they are many." Osman leaned back meditatively, watching the smoke as it curled from his bubbling narghile.

"Please God all will be well with us, but I have had a strange feeling today, husband. Sometimes it has seemed that I must open my heart to Djemile, and so I should have done but that it is such a pity to mar the poor girl's happiness. If anything should happen to her it would ruin Husseyn's life, for never did brother love sister as our Husseyn loves Djemile; may God watch over them both," and great tears welled up into the eyes of the tender-hearted Halide Hanum, as her maternal ears caught the sound of Djemile's happy young voice humming an old Turkish love-song.

The mouthpiece of the large waterpipe fell to Osman's lap, as with curious eyes he scrutinized his wife's face. "I, too, have had a sense of danger to-day-a foreboding of ill that I could not drive from my mind. God grant that we may both be mistaken."

Theirs is an unusual life. So much so that when we stop to consider the conditions under which these villagers normally live, we no longer are surprised at the significance which they are prone to attach to a mental depression which may indicate nothing more serious than a too-hearty indulgence. in a recent meal. To them such mental disturbances have a meaning-and little wonder! In the fertile valleys of that mountainous country which lies to the southward from the eastern extremity of the Black Sea, the various inassimilable elements which go to make up the population exist in a state of continuous eruption. When one never knows at what moment his neighbor's hand may be uplifted against him, seeking his life-blood, or that of his wife or daughter, he is extremely likely to give heed to any occurrence which is capable of being construed as a premonition of danger.

"Strangely enough, though," con

tinued Osman, "where you thought of Djemile, my thoughts were with Husseyn. Do you know that to-day the Kurd, Moustafa, told me that Husseyn's regiment has been transferred from Constantinople, and it is now guarding the frontier just to the north of us?"

"What! On the northern frontier? But that's good news-good news! I don't see how you could feel gloomy after hearing that," exclaimed Halide Hanum reproachfully. "Just think, with only that distance between us our boy may be walking in on us at any time."

"No, my dear wife. No, indeed. This military service is a serious matter. Only in case of absolute necessity would they grant him leave of absence," replied Osman.

"Well, anyway I am glad my boy is getting out and away from the great city. Now he will get more training and be better able to advance himself in the army. Something tells me that he will be yuz-bashi, bin-bashi, and finally the tails of a pasha will grace my wonderful boy."

"I had hoped that he might go up to Constantinople and enter one of the great institutions of learning there and become a doctor of medicine or of the law. He is an intelligent boy, and would do honor to one of the learned professions," rejoined Osman reflectively.

"But think of Husseyn's earliest inclinations. Remember how he used to set up sticks and drill them for soldiers," argued his wife.

"His desire for books was no less great. Besides, the Hodja says that he is the best educated boy in the village. Husseyn loves learning, and would make a great and useful man in one of the professions."

"Just imagine, though, our boy, with his handsome face and stalwart form in the uniform of a pasha. Think of the decorations and the medals, the gold lace and the plumes-____"

"Yes, gold lace and decorationsmedals and more gold lace. My dear wife, I find that you are still very

much of a woman.' And Osman laughed heartily to find that his clearheaded and intensely practical wife was after all very feminine.

A sudden noise brought Osman to his feet. From a nearby street came a motley of sounds-a babel of voices in which apparently all the primitive, emotion-expressing sounds of the human race were represented. It was a moan, a rumble, a roar. It was the sound of the breaking surf, and the impending storm. It was menacing, terrible capable of striking fear-abject, whimpering fear to the stoutest heart. Osman heard it-biyouk (large) Osman, the blacksmith, the strongest man in ten villages. He stretched himself calmly. "I must go," he said, "and see friend Hagop, the Armenian, and while I am out I may as well find out the cause of this noise."

"Don't go, Osman-husband, don't go. It's nothing, nothing but some drunken Christians in a street brawl. Don't go," implored Halide Hanum, and knew it was not the truth when she spoke. But knowing how he hated drunkenness and all connected with it, she hoped to turn her husband from his purpose.

To no effect was her imploring cry, for Osman knew as well as she the meaning of that dreadful din. But as she watched her husband's broad back disappear around the corner in the direction from which came the riotous noises, she crumpled up and an onlooker might have seen the courageous Halide Hanum, her head bowed in her arms, weeping bitterly. As her eyes followed the form of her departing husband, over her mind there came the thought, gripping, compelling as an obsession-that this, then, was their last farewell.

Just as Osman turned the corner, a terrible sight broke across his range of vision-terrible, yet it attracted and held his fascinated gaze as a magnet attracts steel. For there before his eyes was a vast plundering mob, a mob of fanaticism-and lust-crazed Armenians. Their weapons were

strange, yet admirably suited to the work they had to do. Scythes, axes and knives constituted their arms, while some with plain clubs and others with torches were completing the scheme of destruction which was being carried out by their more combatively armed comrades. Wild songs, doubtless inspired by hate and fanaticism, assailed Osman's ears, and from the throats of the marauders burst harsh cries of lust and rage, and sheer blood-madness and love of slaughter in the uncouth language, to him but semi-intelligible. While above alllouder and yet louder, more piteous and heart-rending, rose the cries of their victims. The agonized groans of men butchered with dull axes and heavy clubs, the wails of little children subjected to fiendish tortures, the shrill screams of Moslem women at the idea of a fate worse than death.

Into this saturnalia of lust and hate Osman gazed fascinated. Nearer and nearer came the mob, louder and louder grew the cries from their lustinflamed throats, higher and more piercing came the screams of the women. Moslem women-women whose lives had passed in the peace and security of Moslem homes, were being dragged forth to death-and worse than death, there before his very eyes. His sisters might be among the dead, or possibly among those who were carried screaming to the rear to be violated and butchered later.

Osman's mind worked with lightning rapidiy. Still he did not move. The horrible spectacle of which he was a witness exerted a hypnotic attraction upon him. Suddenly, from behind, through the darkness came a hurrying form. To the blacksmith it seemed that he recognized something familiar in the figure, the peculiar motion of the shoulders, the sound of the footsteps. He looked again: "Hagop," he called softly, "Hagop." The form approached and said something in Armenian which Osman did not understand.

"It is I, Hagop. Osman, the demirdji, your old friend and neighbor.

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