The Perils of Pauline Part 53

"A very simple one, but one that must be very shrewdly handled. It will mean that you and some of your friends will have to make a trip to Philadelphia. Where shall I be able to call you within a day or two?"

"At Stroob's lodging house, in Avenue B."

"Very well. Be prepared to act on short notice."

"I'll stick close to the place, sir."

"And, Wrentz, understand that you are also to act firmly. No Balthazar, tactics. I'm through being tricked."

"I'm sure I never failed you, sir," said Wrentz, with an aggrieved air.

Owen smiled. "True, but temptation occasionally leads even the most honest of men astray," he said, sarcastically.

While this last plot was being hatched Pauline and Harry were playing chess in the library. As she checkmated him for the third time he arose in mock disgust.

"They say chess is a perfect mental test. I wonder who is the brains of this family now?" she taunted.

"There's a difference between brains and hare-brains. You know, I lost because I had that Chicago thing on my mind."

"Oh, isn't that settled yet?"

"No; I'm expecting to be called up any minute with a message that will send me out there."

"Oh, Harry! That's terrible! When you go to Chicago you never get back for a whole week."

"If you like me so much, why don't you marry me and go with me on all my trips?"

"Conceited!" she began, but her face fell again as the telephone bell sounded. Harry answered it, and after a few rapid questions turned to Pauline.

"That's what it is," he said; "I go tomorrow. I must see Owen," and rang the bell.

"Owen," Pauline exclaimed upon his entrance, "Harry must go to Chicago tomorrow. Isn't it dreadful?"

"I am very sorry. But I hope it will not be for long."

"No," said Harry, curtly. "Look over these papers."

An hour later Owen drew from his typewriter this letter:

Miss Pauline Marvin,

Carson & Brown, Publishers, 9 Weston Place, Philadelphia.

New York.

Dear Madam:

After reading your marine story, published in the Cosmopolitan Magazine, we have decided you are just the person to write a new serial we have in mind.

Would you be interested to call on us at your earliest opportunity?

Yours very truly, J. R. Carson."

Owen sealed, addressed and, stamped the letter and enclosed it in a larger envelope, which he addressed to a friend in Philadelphia, with instructions to post the enclosure in that city.

He did not trust the mailing of the double letter to a servant, but, putting on his motor togs, prepared to ride to Westbury.

"Well, he's got a reprieve; he's going to stay with us one more day,"

Pauline cried, happily, as she met Owen in the hall.

For the flash of an instant something twinged at the cold heart of the secretary. The bright beauty of Pauline, her happiness, her love for her foster brother, struck home the first realization of something missing--and never to be achieved--in his grim existence. Perhaps for the moment Raymond Owen had a dim understanding of the value of innocence.

The next afternoon Pauline stood on the veranda bidding Harry goodbye.

"I hate to go, Polly, but I must," he said. "I hate to leave you with that--secretary."

"Harry, please don't start again on that. You know I don't agree with you, and--and I don't want to quarrel with you when you're going away."

"Very well," he said, embracing her, "but don't get into any of your sc.r.a.pes while I am away. Remember, it's a long way to Chicago."

"And Tipperary," she laughed. "Goodbye, darling boy, and run home the minute you can."

"I will. Goodbye."

Pauline had turned dejectedly back toward the house when the sound of steps on the walk drew her attention. It was the postman.

"I'll take them," she said, extending her hand.

She ran over the envelopes swiftly until she came to one which bore the corner mark of a publishing concern in Philadelphia. She had never heard of the firm of Carson & Brown, but, to her enthusiasm of young authorship, the very name "publisher" was magical. She opened the letter hastily and read.

For a moment she stood spellbound with happiness. The realization of her dreams was at hand. Publishers were calling for her work instead of sending it back when she sent it to them.

With a glad cry, and waving the treasured letter, she rushed out into the garden to Owen.

"It's happened!" she sang, gaily. "I am discovered."

"You are what, Miss Pauline?"

"Don't you understand? Can't you see?"

"Not exactly, while you slant that letter above your head like a reprieve for a doomed man."

"Well, read it." She leaned breathlessly over his shoulder as he read the familiar lines.

"Miss Pauline, it is splendid!" he exclaimed. "I was always sure you would be successful with your writing."

"Yes, you encouraged me to get new experiences, while Harry always opposed me," she said. "But, oh, I wish Harry was here to see this."