or paid no attention to the
summons, and Harold was left to the care of the chambermaid, who did her
poor best to serve him.

The Star next morning contained two columns of closely printed matter
under the caption, "Black Mose, the Famous Dead Shot, Dying in a West
Side Hotel. After Years of Adventure on the Trail, the Famous Desperado
Succumbs to Old John Barley Corn." The article recounted all the deeds
which had been ascribed to Harold and added a few entirely new ones. His
marvelous skill with the revolver was referred to, and his defense of
the red men and others in distress was touched upon so eloquently that
the dying man was lifted to a romantic height of hardihood and
gallantry. A fancy picture of him took nearly a quarter of a page and
was surrounded by a corona of revolvers each spouting flame.

Mrs. Raimon seated at breakfast in the lofty dining room of her hotel,
languidly unfolded The Star, gave one glance, and opened the paper so
quickly and nervously her cup and saucer fell to the floor.

"My God! Can that be true? I must see him." As she read the article she
carried on a rapid thinking. "How can I find him? I must see that
reporter; he will know." She was a woman of decision. She arose quickly
and returned to her room. "Call a carriage for me, quick!" she said to
the bell boy who answered to her call. "No name is given to the hotel,
but The Star will know. Good Heavens! if he should die!" Her florid face
was set and white as she took her seat in the cab. "To The Star
office--quick!" she said to the driver, and there was command in the
slam of the door.

To the city editor she abruptly said: "I want to find the man who wrote
this article on 'Black Mose.' I want to find the hotel where he is."

The editor was enormously interested at once. "Harriman is on the night
force and at home how, but I'll see what I can do." By punching various
bells and speaking into mysteriously ramifying tubes he was finally able
to say: "The man is at a little hotel just across the river. I think it
is called the St. Nicholas. It isn't a nice place; you'd better take
some one with you. Mind you, I don't vouch for the truth of that
article; the boy may be mistaken about it."

Mrs. Raimon turned on her heel and vanished. She had her information and
acted upon it. She was never finer than when she knelt at Harold's
bedside and laid her hand gently on his forehead. She could not speak
for a moment, and when her eyes cleared