Shot With Crimson

with God and you. Tomorrow morning they will take you away. They may—they probably will shoot you as a spy. I

fore his eyes. Everything that had fed her blood for years seeped away, leaving a waste of sunken flesh: pride, arrogance, defia

ised h

r way out, Davenpo

volver he had laid o

nly friend you have in

heartless? Have you n

iven you love for twenty years and more. Y

uld die for you a thousand times o

gnoble one,—and you have lost. You have begged me to—to

e than that man who sits out there like a vulture, waiting for—waiting for me. What I have confessed to you I would die a thousand times over rather than confess to another living soul. They could take me away tonight and torture me till I died, and not one

Do not

usband. The world is to believe that I—that an accident—a

your son, Fri

ck flash,—could it have been o

rew a deep, full breath. “Thank God! He is young,—he has a long and useful life to live. I gave it

ilable, of the shocking accident which resulted in the death of Mrs. Davenport Carstairs. She had fallen from a window in her bed-ch

to topple forward.... Before retiring for the night, she had complained to her husband of a dull, throbbing headache, due, no doubt, to anxiety over the alarming illness of her niece, Miss Hansbury.... Sometime after one o’clock, Mr. Carstairs, in the adjoining bed-room, heard her moaning as if i

relief in the thought that she was asleep. The husband opened the door slightly and listened. There was no sound. He entered the room, which was dark, and appr

ed women in all the great city, of her prominence in the conduct of important war charities and reliefs, of her unswerving devotion to the cause for whic

lein, couched in most exquisite terms, conveying tribute to the dead and sympathy to the living. It was se

Paul Zimmerlein, it would be sheer presumption to e

nd