Contents
I. His Inheritance
II. The Woman With the Disfigured Face
III. The Famous Conrad Lagrange
IV. At the House on Fairlands Heights
V. The Mystery of the Rose Garden
VI. An Unknown Friend
VII. Mrs. Taine in Quaker Gray
VIII. The Portrait That Was Not a Portrait
IX. Conrad Lagrange's Adventure
X. A Cry in the Night
XI. Go Look in Your Mirror, You Fool
XII. First Fruits of His Shame
XIII. Myra Willard's Challenge
XIV. In the Mountains
XV. The Forest Ranger's Story
XVI. When the Canyon Gates Are Shut
XVII. Confessions in the Spring Glade
XVIII. Sibyl Andrés and the Butterflies
XIX. The Three Gifts and their Meanings
XX. Myra's Prayer and the Ranger's Warning
XXI. The Last Climb
XXII. Shadows of Coming Events
XXIII. Outside the Canyon Gates Again
XXIV. James Rutlidge Makes a Mistake
XXV. On the Pipe-Line Trail
XXVI. I Want You Just as You Are
XXVII. The Answer
XXVIII. You're Ruined, My Boy
XXIX. The Hand Writing On The Wall
XXX. In the Same Hour
XXXI. As the World Sees
XXXII. The Mysterious Disappearance
XXXIII. Beginning the Search
XXXIV. The Tracks on Granite Peak
XXXV. A Hard Way
XXXVI. What Should He Do
XXXVII. The Man Was Insane
XXXVIII. An Inevitable Conflict
XXXIX. The Better Way
XL. Facing the Truth
XLI. Marks of the Beast
XLII. Aaron King's Succes
The Eyes of the World
Chapter I
His Inheritance
It was winter--cold and snow and ice and naked trees and leaden clouds and
stinging wind.
The house was an ancient mansion on an old street in that city of culture
which has given to the history of our nation--to education, to religion,
to the sciences, and to the arts--so many illustrious names.
In the changing years, before the beginning of my story, the woman's
immediate friends and associates had moved from the neighborhood to the
newer and more fashionable districts of a younger generation. In that city
of her father's there were few of her old companions left. There were
fewer who remembered. The distinguished leaders in the world of art and
letters, whose voices had been so often heard within the walls of her
home, had, one by one, passed on; leaving their works and their names to
their children. The children, in the greedy rush of these younger times,
had too readily forgotten the woman who, to the culture and genius of a
passing day, had been hostess and friend.
The apartment was pitifully bare and empty. Ruthlessly it had been
stripped of its treasures of art and its proud luxuries. But, even in its
naked necessities the room managed, still, to evidence the rare
intelligence and the exquisite refinement of its dying tenant.
