The Perils of Pauline | Page 2

youth until he knew all his ways and even his habits of thought. There was no doubt that Owen was as upright and clean as the old man himself.
At the age of forty the devil entered into Owen. It came in the form of insomnia. Loss of sleep will make any man irritable and unreasonable, but hardly dishonest. With the sleeplessness, however, came the temptation to take drugs. Owen shifted from one narcotic to another, finally, settling down upon morphine. Five years of the opiate had made him its slave. Every physician knows that morphine fiends become dishonest.
The secretary had speculated with his modest savings and lost them. He had borrowed and lost again, and now, for some time, had been betting on horse races. This last had made him acquainted with a certain Montgomery Hicks, who lived well without visible source of income. Through Hicks, Owen had betrayed one of his employer's guarded secrets. Hicks, armed with this secret, promptly changed from a friendly creditor to a blackmailer.
Owen, on his way to summon Pauline and Harry, descended to the basement, where the butler, gardener and, a colored man were uncrating the Egyptian mummy. He told them to stand it in place of the bust of Pallas Athene in the library, and then went out, crossing the splendid lawns, and graveled roads to the tennis court. There was no design in Owen's mind against the two players, but of late the instinct of both the hunter and the hunted were showing in him, and it prompted him to approach quietly and under cover. So he passed along the edge of a hedge and stood a moment within earshot.
Pauline was about to "serve," but paused to look down at the loosened laces of her small white shoe. She heard Harry's racquet drop and saw him hurdle the net. In another instant he was at her feet tying the tiny bow.
"You needn't have done that, Harry," she said.
"Oh, no,!" Harry affirmed, as he vainly tried to make his bow as trim as its mate. "I suppose not. I don't suppose I need to, think, about you all the time either, or follow you around till that new cocker spaniel of yours thinks I'm part of your shadow. Perhaps I don't need to love you."
"Harry, get up! Someone will see you and think you're proposing to me."
"Think? They ought to know I'm proposing. But, Pauline, talking about 'need,' there isn't any need of your being so pretty. Your eyes are bigger and bluer than they really need to be. You could see just as well if you didn't have such long, curly lashes, and there isn't any real necessity for the way they group together in that starry effect, like Nell Brinkley's girls. Is there any need of fifteen different beautiful shades of light where the sun strikes your hair just back of your ear?"
"Harry, stop this! The score is forty-fifteen."
"Yes, all these things are entirely unnecessary. I'm going to have old Mother Nature indicted by the Grand jury for willful, wasteful, wanton extravagance unless - unless" Harry paused.
"Now, Harry, don't use up your whole vocabulary -- promise what?"
"Promise to marry me at once."
"No, Harry, I can't do that -- that is, right away. I must have time."
"Why time? Pauline, don't you love me?"
"Yes, I think I do love you, Harry, and you know' there is nobody else in the world."
"Then what do you want time for?"
"Why, to see life and to know what life really is."
"All right. Marry me, and I'll show you life. I'll lead you any kind of a life you want."
"No, that won't do. As an old, settled-down, married woman I couldn't really do what I want. I must see life in its great moments. I must have thrills, adventures, see people, do daring things, watch battles. It might be best for me even to see someone killed, if that were possible. As I was telling Harley St. John last night -"
"Harley St. John? Well, if I catch that fop taking you motoring again you'll get your wish and see a real nice aristocratic murder. He ought to be put out of his misery, anyway; but where did you get all these sudden notions about wild and strenuous life?"
Pauline did not answer. They both heard a discreet cough, and Owen rounded the corner of the hedge. He delivered his message, and the three walked slowly toward the house.
Advancing to meet them came a dashy checked suit. Above it was a large Panama hat with a gaudy ribbon. A red necktie was also visible, even at a considerable distance. Between the hat and the necktie a face several degrees darker in color than the tie came into view as the distance lessened. It was Mr. Montgomery Hicks, whose first name