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OF THE
MOTftERS
'ITA6RAPH'}
This story was written from the Photoplay of ELAINE STERNE, which won the $1,000 prize in the recent contest conducted by the "Evening Sun"
'"-p* here's one born every minute," 1 said the woman, wearily. Her hand, slimly sensitive, brushed the book, open before her on the desk, as a musician might his instrument ; yet there was disdain, too, in the gesture. She was a tall, ripe creature, a little too beautiful to be true, and strangely — as clothes have a traitorous, telltale way of doing — her perfectly conventional costume hinted subtly at something furtive and doubtful about her.
The man standing, squat as some sardonic god of chance, at her side, furthered the impression. His manner was a nice balance between servility and familiarity. He was neither the retainer nor the equal.
"Ah, mads oui, madame," he assented, tugging at his war-lord mustache with manicured fingers, "but it is well it is so, for zis bees-nes — it is
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of an uncertainty, vraiment. Some of these days one who lose will babble, and all will be — zut!" He snapped his fingers. "As you Eenglish say — it's a long worm that has no turning, madame. ' '
"Not while the present eminently satisfactory powers that be have charge of our noble city government," said Mrs. Raymond, shrugging her shoulders. "But tho it is tiresome to furnish aldermen with touring-cars and trips to Europe, it pays in the near-sightedness of the dear creatures." She rose, closing the book and tapping it with white-gloved forefinger. "I am more than satisfied, my good Henri. See that everything finds its place in the records, for tho I cannot come often to go thru them, my absences have eyes."
Henri's smile did not change, but his eyes disagreed.