It was not until we were back at the office again that either Mr. Royce or myself ventured a comment upon this extraordinary story. Even then, we found very little to say. Nothing could be done to divert the blow; nothing even to lessen its severity. Burr Curtiss and Marcia Lawrence must endure their fate with such courage as they could; must forget; at least, must strive to soften love into affection. How would they regard each other, I wondered? Would the mere fact of revealed relationship alter their old feeling, or would love survive to torture them? They had in common no brotherly-and-sisterly instincts or experiences; they were unchanged; they were still maid and lover, as they had always been.
The days passed, and in the stress of work at the office, the memory of Burr Curtiss and his fortunes gradually became less vivid, until I began to hope that, in time, it might really cease to worry me. But one morning, Mr. Royce looked up from his paper, his eyes shining.
"TheUmbriareached Liverpool this morning," he said, in a voice not wholly steady. "It's all over by this time. I wonder how they bore it?"
"Bravely, I've no doubt," I answered, but I trembled at thought of it. How had she summoned courage to tell him?
"He'll come home, I think," added Mr. Royce, pursuing his own thoughts. "They could hardly stay abroad together; their relationship, of course, will always remain a secret——"
The office boy entered and laid a little envelope at his elbow. He tore it open quickly and read its contents at a glance.
"It's a cable from Curtiss," he said, and passed it over to me.
"Oceanicdelayed engine break-down," I read. "Reached Liverpool five hours afterUmbria. Missed Marcia but searching for her. Cable care Hotel Adelphi."
"Oceanicdelayed engine break-down," I read. "Reached Liverpool five hours afterUmbria. Missed Marcia but searching for her. Cable care Hotel Adelphi."
Mr. Royce sat for a moment drumming nervously upon his chair-arm.
"He hasn't any chance of finding her in a place like that," he said, at last. "Most probably she's gone on to London."
"Or to some place on the continent. There must be many places where she'd feel at home."
"What would we better do? Shall we write out the story and mail it to Curtiss? He'll get it in a week."
"He won't stay at Liverpool a week," I objected. "The letter might go astray, and be opened by some one who had no right to read it."
"We might cable a mere outline."
I thought it over; but somehow my point of view had changed. Now that I knew the story, it seemed to me that it was Marcia Lawrence's right to decide what step should be taken next. Once she had recovered her self-poise, she would see what course was best, and I was certain that she would be brave enough, strong enough, to follow it unshrinking to the end.
"Let us wait," I said. "A little delay can do no harm; just as haste can do no good."
"Yes; I believe that's best," agreed our junior. "Nothing we can do will help them. They must work out the problem for themselves."
"Besides," I added, "I've a feeling that Miss Lawrence will herself decide to meet it squarely. She'll realise that Curtiss has a right to know the story. I believe that she'll soon come home again, ready to face him and tell him everything. She'll see that it's cowardly to stay away. Then there's her mother—she'll think of her—of her misery and loneliness. She won't leave her to live by herself in that great, gloomy house. We're safe in leaving the future in her hands."
But in the days that followed, I came to doubt more and more whether this policy was the best one. Had I not been thinking too much of Miss Lawrence, and too little of our client? Perhaps if he knew the secret, he would no longer wish to pursue her; he might prefer to wait, to give time opportunity to heal the first rawness of the wound. Indeed, it was conceivable that love might change to loathing. In that case, it were better to have the crisis over with at once; to apply the knife before the sore had a chance to harden or grow deeper. Such heroic action might effect a cure. But I kept these doubts to myself; there was no use disturbing our junior with them. I could see how he was suffering on his friend's behalf. I could guess his fear that some dreadful tragedy would mark the end.
The days passed, and we heard no more from
Curtiss, not a word to tell us how the search had progressed. Godfrey came in to see me once or twice, but he had nothing new to tell; and of course I had nothing to tell him. At last, he expressed the opinion that we should never solve the mystery; and as the public had forgotten it long since, he decided to waste no more time upon it.
Another visitor I had one afternoon, when Dr. Schuyler's card was brought in to me. I ordered him shown in at once, and as I shook hands with him, I noted that he seemed greyer and older than when I had seen him last.
"Yes," he said, with a smile, interpreting my glance; "it's this trouble which has been weighing upon me. I've tried to shake it off, but I can't."
"Sit down," I said. "I'm glad to see you. And I wouldn't allow the affair to worry me, if I were you."
"That's easy enough to say," he retorted, with a little shake of the head. "But remember, Mr. Lester, Mrs. Lawrence and her daughter were two of my dearest friends. And this tragedy has wrecked their lives. Is there any news?"
"None at all, except that Curtiss missed theUmbriaat Liverpool, and has not been able to find Miss Lawrence."
"Perhaps that was best."
"I'm inclined to think so myself," I agreed.
"There's one thing, though," he added suddenly. "Curtiss has no reason to be ashamed of his birth."
I looked at him with quick interest.
"Then you've discovered——"
"Yes; the minister who married Mary Jarvis and Boyd Endicott. I couldn't rest after you showed me that picture—after I knew that Mary Jarvis had had a child. I felt that I must find out—for her sake, as well as for my own. And so I set systematically to work. It was really not difficult, for there were not more than six or eight places where the ceremony could possibly have been performed. I took them one after another, and soon found the right one—you see, I had the date, approximately. Her story was true in every detail. They had driven to Clearwater, about five miles north of Plainfield, a little village of two or three hundred inhabitants. The minister who married them is still living. He showed me the record, and he remembered the affair distinctly. The night was a very bad one, and he had been aroused from sleep by a loud knocking at the door. He had gone down, thinking that it was some neighbour come to summon him to the bedside of some one taken suddenly ill, and was surprised to find a handsome young fellow standing on the doorstep. He explained his errand in a few words, and ten minutes later, the thing was done. The minister's wife was the only witness. The bride was very frightened and more than once seemed about to faint, but managed to pull through, and was driven away with her husband a few minutes after the ceremony has been performed."
The clergyman's face was glowing with satisfaction.
"It was a great thing to me," he added, "to be able to prove that Mary Jarvis had told her father the truth."
"It seems strange," I said, "that he never made any attempt to verify it."
"Ah, but he did," broke in Dr. Schuyler quickly. "He did verify it. At least it could have been no one else in my opinion, from the description given me by the minister at Clearwater. He was there and saw the record only a few days after that Christmas Eve on which his daughter attempted to run away."
"He never told his sister," I said, and told him of Mrs. Heminway's story.
"It was like him," said my companion, after a moment's thought, "to keep it to himself. Perhaps he feared his sister would feel some tenderness for the child if she knew there was no shame attached to it. But whatever his motive, I am glad that I know the truth."
"And I," I said. "It will be easier to tell Curtiss—if he must be told."
"And Marcia."
"I don't believe she ever doubted."
"Perhaps not; but it will be good for her to know."
"Yes," I agreed, and fell a moment silent. How would the story end?
"Poor children!" said my companion, and rose with a little sigh. "They must bear the burden with what strength they have. God send it be sufficient! I must bid you good-bye, Mr. Lester. I feel better, now that you know the truth. I want every one who knows the story to know this part of it."
"They shall," I promised.
"And if there is any way that I can help——"
"You don't need to assure me of that," I interrupted. "I shall call upon you without an instant's hesitation."
"Thank you," and he wrung my hand and was gone.
How would the story end? I asked myself the question again, as I sank back into my seat. And I could find no answer to it.
But the end was nearer than I had thought.
It was near closing time one afternoon, and we were finishing up some odds and ends of work, when the door opened, and in came Burr Curtiss. We were on our feet in an instant—Mr. Royce and I—and had him by the hands. He was greatly changed—older and thinner, with an increased lankness of jaw; but he had regained his equilibrium. He was no longer dazed by the blow fate had dealt him. The firm-set lips told that he had taught himself how to face the world and his own future.
We sat down after the first greetings, and then there was a little pause. I was uncertain how to begin; I had a horror of opening old wounds which I saw that Mr. Royce acutely shared.
"Well, I'm back," Curtiss began, seeing our hesitation and no doubt understanding it. "I soon found out that I'd undertaken a hopeless task."
"Then you didn't find her?" asked Mr. Royce.
"No," answered the other evenly. "I completely lost track of her after she left Liverpool. I was able to trace her to the station, and to find that she'd taken train for London, and that was all. So I decided that the wisest thing for me to do was to come home. My boat got in an hour ago—and I came straight here for news."
Our junior nodded.
"Yes—I think you did right to come back. But I haven't any news—at least, I believe that she herself would wish to tell you——"
Curtiss started sharp around.
"Then you know?" he asked. "You know why she left me?"
Mr. Royce paused an instant, then chose the better way.
"Yes," he said. "Lester hit upon it, and we proved he was right."
Curtiss was out of his chair now; but he held himself well in hand.
"And you'll tell me?"
"It was nothing that reflects on either of you. It was something neither of you could help nor do anything to alter."
"So it's bad news!" and his face turned suddenly livid.
"Sit down, Curtiss," said our junior imploringly. "It's hard enough, at best—I—can't tell you at all if you take it that way."
Curtiss glanced at him again, then sat down.
"Now tell me," he said quietly, but I saw how his hands were trembling.
"I don't wonder she fled," began Mr. Royce, shrinking from the plunge. "She couldn't face the world——"
"But me," cried Curtiss; "she could have faced me!"
"You least of all."
"Tell me," whispered Curtiss. "Let me judge of that."
There was no resisting him—it was his right to know—so our junior told the story, as briefly as might be.
He bore it better than I had hoped. After a time, he was able to talk of it quite calmly, to ask a question or two, to tell us something of his own boyhood, and of the people who reared him.
"I never suspected," he concluded, "that John Curtiss and his wife weren't really my grandparents. They told me my father and mother were dead, and they certainly treated me as a child of their own. They had no other children, and doubtless by the time I came of age to ask questions, regarded me as wholly theirs. Mrs. Curtiss died when I was sixteen, her husband three years later, just as I was ready to enter college; and I found that he'd made me his sole heir, and that I was worth some thirty thousand dollars. I went on to college, as they'd wished me to. And now," he added, "what shall I do? Shall I go to Elizabeth and see Mrs. Lawrence——"
It was plain that he could not think of her as his mother. She had never been his mother. He had never known her as such; she had played no part in his childhood. I knew that one of the questions I had asked myself was answered: the mere revelation of kinship had made no difference in his feeling for Marcia Lawrence. He loved her yet; he had that battle still to fight. And she—was it the same with her? What a hideous irony of fate!
"Mrs. Lawrence knew nothing of the story," I pointed out. "She may know nothing of it, even yet. She doesn't suspect that her child lived. I think her daughter means that she should never know, if it can be kept from her."
"Then she shall never know from me," he said, and took a deep breath. "I suppose that I'd better wait. Marcia can decide what's best to do. I—I don't think I quite realise what it all means," and he passed his hand before his eyes. "The best thing for me is to go to work. That'll give me something else to think about."
"That's right," I said. "Thinking about this won't do any good—nothing will."
"No," he agreed, his lips bloodless. "I begin to see that—to understand——"
The door opened, and the office boy came in.
"Telegram, Mr. Lester," he said, and gave it to me.
It was:
"Our Elizabeth correspondent wires Miss Lawrence home noon to-day."Godfrey."
"Our Elizabeth correspondent wires Miss Lawrence home noon to-day.
"Godfrey."
For a moment I hesitated. Was it best to tell him? But a glance at his drawn face decided me.
"The search is over," I said. "Miss Lawrence is home again," and I handed him the message.
He read it at a glance, then started to his feet.
"Will you come with me, Mr. Lester?" he asked. "I know I've given you a lot of trouble, but this will be the last, I think."
"You haven't given me a bit of trouble," I protested. "I'll be glad to come."
"Thank you," he said simply, and held out his hand to Royce.
"You think it best to go?" the latter asked.
"Best? Oh, I'm not thinking of that! I'm going to her—I've got to see her! I can't wait! I——"
He wrung our junior's hand without finishing the sentence; too overwrought, indeed, to finish it—and strode from the room.
Mr. Royce held me back for a rapid word of warning.
"I'm glad you're going," he said. "He'll need some one. There's no telling what'll happen. Good luck!"
When we were in the train, with the lights of Jersey City flying past us, I took occasion to examine Curtiss again. He was lying back in the seat with his eyes closed, and the posture made his face seem even lanker and grimmer than it had at first appeared. I saw that I must keep my wits about me. When he awoke to a full realisation of the trick fate had played him, he might, in his desperation——
"But you said Mrs. Lawrence told you she knew why Marcia had run away."
The voice fairly made me jump, it came so suddenly, so unexpectedly.
"She did," I answered, turning to find his dark eyes open and strangely bright. "But of course she was mistaken. She fancied it was something else, or she wouldn't have said what she did."
"What did she say? You've told me, but I've forgotten."
"She said that the marriage wasn't impossible—that the choice should be left to you."
He pondered this a moment, then his lips curved into an ironical smile.
"No doubt another family secret!" he said. "One would think we were in Corsica or Sicily! Well, we'll try to bear it. By the way, who's this fellow Godfrey, who sent you that message?"
"He's a newspaper-man, a friend of mine—a mighty clever fellow."
His face grew grimmer still.
"More food for the yellow press," he said, with a harsh laugh. "They certainly owe us a vote of thanks."
He was in a dangerous mood. I saw his face harden and darken as he gazed out through the window. His lips moved, but no sound came from them. Then they closed again, compressed and bloodless, and he settled back in his seat as though he had taken a final resolution. I shuddered as I tried to guess what it was. I could imagine but one end for a drama so hideous as this.
And then, as I lay back in the seat, gazing at him, a sudden ray of light flashed across my brain. That contour of the face—that poise of the head—where had I seen them? Where but in the portrait of Ruth Endicott which hung upon the wall of the Kingdon cottage! Since he resembled his father, he would, of course, resemble her. Another link in the chain, I told myself; and trembled to think how strong it was.
Nothing about the house had changed. As we drove up to the door, I saw that the blinds were still drawn, as they had been at the time of my first visit, and no ray of light came through them. It seemed a house of death, and a little shiver ran through me as Curtiss rang the bell.
There was a long delay; a delay that tortured me: for a dark vision danced before me—the vision of a girl lying dead beneath the windows of the library, with a portrait pressed close against her heart. So vivid was it that I could not shake it off, and I nearly cried aloud as a light was switched on the hall, and the door suddenly opened. I looked up expectantly—but it was not Lucy Kingdon; it was a servant whose face I did not remember. She took our cards and showed us into the room which, when I had seen it last, was gay with flowers. Then she left us. Not until she had gone did I remember that Lucy Kingdon was still fighting a battle with death.
As moment followed moment, I found myself unconsciously gripping my hands tighter and tighter about the arms of my chair. There seemed to be about the house an atmosphere of terror. I could guess what agony of suspense Curtiss was enduring and I saw him wipe the perspiration from his forehead once or twice with a hand anything but steady. Perhaps she would not come. Perhaps she was not yet brave enough. Or perhaps she could not come——
There was a step at the door; a woman entered——
It was Mrs. Lawrence. She came forward with a smile of welcome. One glance at her face told me that she did not yet suspect—that her daughter had kept the secret.
"I knew you'd come," she said.
"Then sheishere?" asked Curtiss, gripping his hands behind him, devouring her face with his eyes; feeling, perhaps, for the first time, some instinct of sonship stirring within him.
"Yes, she's here," answered Mrs. Lawrence, still smiling at him. "She came only a few hours ago and is very tired—too tired to talk, even to me. She doesn't feel strong enough to come down to see you now."
What power was it drew my eyes to the tapestry at the inner door? I saw it swing aside, almost imperceptibly; I caught the glimpse of a face, white as marble, whose eyes dwelt upon Curtiss with a look of love, of longing, that turned me a little giddy. She loved him yet! God pity them both!
"But she told me," Mrs. Lawrence was saying, "that if you'll come to-morrow morning, she'll see you. Oh, I can see how she's suffered! Too much, I think! And you've suffered, too," she added, and her eyes questioned his.
"Yes," he said. "I've suffered too."
"Thank God it's past! You see, I don't doubt you. I know that when you hear the story——"
"I have heard it," Curtiss interrupted grimly, and I saw a spasm of pain convulse the face at the door.
But Mrs. Lawrence was looking up at him, her eyes alight.
"And it will make no difference!" she cried. "Itcanmake no difference—for you love her—I know it—I can see it—you love her just as you always did!"
"Yes," said Curtiss hoarsely. "God help me, I love her just as I always did!"
"Then you can't give her up—you won't—that would be cruel—would kill her, I think—for it's no fault of hers——"
"Give her up!" echoed Curtiss, seized suddenly with a terrible trembling. "No, I'll never give her up!"
"I knew it," she said triumphantly. "I knew I'd not misjudged you. And there need be no scandal. No one need ever know!"
What was she saying? What infamy was she proposing? But not with the joy-illumined face! Ah, she did not understand, and we should have to tell her!
"It was wrong, I know," she went on, more calmly. "But when the mother died, he wanted to take the child to rear it as his own—I had not given him any—and since—since—there was a sorrow in my own life, I could understand and forgive. It was a kind of penance—an atonement—and I welcomed it. Besides, he was not wholly to blame, for she—but I'll speak no ill of her. And I grew to love the child for her own sake—I grew to forget that she was not really mine——"
Curtiss was clutching blindly at a chair, his face ghastly, his eyes staring.
"I—I don't think I quite understand," he faltered, "You—you're speaking of Marcia?"
"Of Marcia, certainly. But you said you knew the story."
She was looking at him intently, her face suddenly pale.
"Was it something else?" she asked. "Something else? Was it the letter? Tell me!"
"No, no," he protested, and stopped, unable to go on.
"I don't think he heard it quite correctly, Mrs. Lawrence," I said, seeing that he needed saving. "Do I understand you to say Miss Lawrence isn't your daughter?"
"She's Ruth Endicott's daughter. She was housekeeper here and she—she—But no matter. No one knew except her cousins, the Kingdons. It was Harriet who took her away—to Florida—and she died there. They promised to keep the secret—it was to their interest—we did everything we could for them—I was kinder to them than they deserved. But I loved the child—I had none of my own—I wanted to protect my husband's memory—Where was the sin in——"
"Where is she?" demanded Curtiss hoarsely, but with a great light in his eyes. "Where is she?"
"Then you don't mind? You won't——"
"Mind!" cried Curtiss. "Mind! Where is she?"
The curtains at the door were swept aside, and a woman appeared between them—a woman regal, with glowing eyes, with smiling, tremulous lips——
Fool that I had been not to guess—not to see! It was the Endicott strain, first and last—dark, passionate, virile—and I had shut my eyes to it!
I saw him turn toward her, his face aflame with joy——
Then the hot tears blinded me, and I groped my way from the room, from the house, out into the silent night; and I looked up at the quiet stars, with Pippa's song singing in my heart——
"God's in his heaven—All's right with the world!"
"God's in his heaven—All's right with the world!"
An absorbing detective story of modern New York, especially original in its plot and the fact that a young lawyer does the detective work; the conclusion is most surprising.
"The author has stepped at once to the front ranks among American writers of detective tales ... a yarn with genuine thrills," (and comparing it with some of the most popular detective stories) "the English is better and cleaner cut, the love passages are never maudlin, there is throughout more dignity and sense, and the book shows a far wider knowledge of the logical technique of detective fiction."—Bookman.
N. Y. Sun: "Distinctly an interesting story—one of the sort that the reader will not lay down before he goes to bed."
N. Y. Post: "By comparison with the work of Anna Katharine Green ... it is exceptionally clever ... told interestingly and well."
N. Y. Tribune: "The Holladay Case was a capital story of crime and mystery. In the Marathon Mystery the author is in even firmer command of the trick. He is skillful in keeping his reader in suspense, and every element in it is cunningly adjusted to preserving the mystery inviolate until the end."
Boston Transcript: "The excellence of its style, Mr. Stevenson apparently knowing well the dramatic effect of fluency and brevity, and the rationality of avoiding false clues and attempts unduly to mystify his readers."
Boston Herald: "This is something more than an ordinary detective story. It thrills you and holds your attention to the end. But besides all this the characters are really well drawn and your interest in the plot is enhanced by interest in the people who play their parts therein."
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A tale of a modern mystery of New York and Etretat that has been republished in England and Germany.
This is one of the new and artistic style of detective stories, somewhat in the vein of Conan Doyle. The tale begins with the finding of a New York banker stabbed to death in his office. Suspicion falls on his daughter. A kidnapping and pursuit over seas follow. The story contains a minimum of horror and a maximum of ingenuity.
"Almost instantly commands the reader's attention."—Critic.
N. Y. Tribune: "Professor Dicey recently said, 'If you like a detective story take care you read a good detective story.' This is a good detective story, and it is the better because the part of the hero is not filled by a member of the profession.... The reader will not want to put the book down until he has reached the last page. Most ingeniously constructed and well written into the bargain."
"An advance upon 'The Divine Fire.'"—London Times.
"The one novel on the divorce question."—Boston Transcript.
"A noteworthy book.... There are things said in these pages, and said very plainly, which need to be said, which are rarely enough said—almost never so well said. The book contains unforgettable scenes, persons, phrases, and such a picture of the hardness of a good woman as exists nowhere else in our literature."—New York Times Saturday Review.
"Masterly ... artistic to the core."—Boston Advertiser.
"No criticism of trifles can leave in doubt the great distinction of her craftsmanship. Very certainly she must have made her reputation by this book, if it had not been already won."—Punch(London).
"In all our new fiction I have found nothing worthy to compare with 'The Divine Fire.'"—Mary MossinThe Atlantic Monthly.
"A full-length study of the poetic temperament, framed in a varied and curiously interesting environment, and drawn with a firmness of hand that excites one's admiration.... Moreover, a real distinction of style, besides being of absorbing interest from cover to cover."—Dial.
"I find her book the most remarkable that I have read for many years."—Owen SeamaninPunch(London).
"Maintains a clinging grip upon the mind and senses, compelling one to acknowledge the author's genius."—Chicago Record-Herald.
"Makes one wonder if in future years the quiet little English woman may not be recognized as a new Jane Austen."—New York Sun.
"It ranks high in originality, interest and power.... Audrey is a distinct creation."—Times Review.
The story of a London waif, a friendly artist, his friends and family, with some decidedly dramatic happenings.
"'Joseph Vance' was far and away the best novel of the year, and of many years.... Mr. De Morgan's second novel ... proves to be no less remarkable, and equally productive of almost unalloyed delight.... The reader ... is hereby warned that if he skims 'Alice-for-Short' it will be to his own serious loss.... A remarkable example of the art of fiction at its noblest."—Dial.
"Really worth reading and praising ... will be hailed as a masterpiece. If any writer of the present era is read a half century hence, a quarter century, or even a decade, that writer is William De Morgan."—Boston Transcript.
"It is the Victorian age itself that speaks in those rich, interesting, overcrowded books.... Page by page the new book is as rich, piquant and interesting as its predecessor.... Everywhere are wit, learning and scholarship ... the true creative imagination.... Will be remembered as Dicken's novels are remembered."—Springfield Republican.
A novel of life near London in the 50's.
"The book of the last decade; the best thing in fiction since Mr. Meredith and Mr. Hardy; must take its place, by virtue of its tenderness and pathos, its wit and humor, its love of human kind, and its virile characterization, as the first great English novel that has appeared in the twentieth century."—LEWIS MELVILLE inNew York Times Saturday Review.
"No novel since Thackeray's own will give you so much honest comfort and delight."—World's Work.
"If the reader likes both 'David Copperfield' and 'Peter Ibbetson' he can find the two books in this one."—The Independent.
"A perfect piece of writing."—New York Tribune.
An intense romance of the Italian rising against the Austrians early in the nineteenth century.
"One of the most powerful novels of the decade."—New York Tribune.
Being the history of three months in the life of an English gentleman. Illustrated by C. D. Gibson.
These stirring romances established a new vogue in fiction and are among the most widely-read novels. Each has been successfully dramatized.
A humorous love story of a beautiful American and a gallant Englishman who stoops to conquer. Two almost human automobiles play prominent parts. There are picturesque scenes in Provence, Spain and Italy.
"Altogether the best automobile story of which we have knowledge, and might serve almost as a guide-book for highway travel from Paris to Sicily."—Atlantic Monthly.
"The authors have duplicated their success with 'The Lightning Conductor.' ... Unusually absorbing."—Boston Transcript.
This humorous Anglo-American tale made an instantaneous hit.
"He is probably funny because he cannot help it.... Must consent to be regarded as a benefactor of his kind without responsibility."—The Nation.
The first of a new series of biographies of leading Americans.
"Performs a real service in preserving the essentials."—Review of Reviews.
"Very interesting.... Much sound originality of treatment, and the style is clear."—Springfield Republican.
"Holds a tremendous human interest.... Author writes with wit and a delightfully feminine abandon."—Outlook.
"This surprisingly outspoken volume ... could have been written only by an extraordinarily able woman who knew the inside of Russian politics and also had actual experience in Japanese war hospitals."—Chicago Record-Herald.
"The most thorough and comprehensive book on the Panama Canal."—Nation.
The author was recently with theNew York Evening Sun.
Some seventy-five leading newspapers praise this book as the best detailed account of the business, editorial, reportorial and manufacturing organization of a metropolitan journal. It should be invaluable to those entering upon newspaper work and a revelation to the general reader.
Pretty anthologies of prose and verse from British and American authors, respectively for wayfarers and the urbane.