A New Novel by
Edwin Baird
As editor of Wetrp Tags, Edwin Baird has read thousands of stories of almost every sort. Some were good and some were bad, and some fell in between. Then he de- cided to write a story unlike any of these. The result is
“The Different Novel’’
“Fay” is a brand new kind of story. It’s not a story of any “special type.”’ It’s not a story
, for any particular group of read- ers, It’s a story for everybody. You will enjoy reading ‘‘Fay."’ You will want to read it more than once. You ‘will want to tell your friends about it.
“Fay"’ is already being widely discussed wherever books are read. Within three weeks after its pub- lication @ score of enthusiastic readers wrote to Baird and told him what they thought of it. This comes near establishing a record. And the letters are still pouring in!
Gp to any book dealer and say : “I want Baird’s new novel
66 99
You can’t go wrong if you tell him that.
“FAY” is Published by
EDWARD J. CLODE
156 Fifth Ave. New York
shrugged his shoulders as if to shake off some memory.
"Used to be—years ago," he anwered gruffly. "Guess I've not forgotten all I know. Got nothing to work with, though. But how the devil do you come to be here alone—and in this condition?"
"My husband—William Stevenson—he's sheriff," she explained between twinges of pain. "He went away yesterday—after a bad man—a man named Henshaw—they call him 'The Killer.' Right after he went the storm broke, and then this—"
She halted lamely for an instant, then, as if seeking to defend her absent husband, she continued: "He—The Killer—has an awful record. Murdered a man in cold blood a week ago in Erie—Killed another several months ago. When William heard that he was seen in Milledgeville—that’s thirty miles away, over the mountains—he felt that he had to go. He hated to leave me, but he didn't think that this—would happen, and—"
The Killer turned his back so that she might not see the look of amazement on his face. "Bad snow slide down the canyon," he answered. "Happened right after I came through. That's what's holding him. And now, madam—Mrs. Stevenson—quit fretting and let me get to work."
He picked up the lamp and bore it back into the kitchen. Setting it on the table, he scratched his head with a puzzled expression on his face,
"Now ain't this a hell of a fix?" he murmured to himself, "Bill Stevenson's wife—the wife of Sheriff Bill—and he sworn to get me, dead or alive."
Slowly, his eyes filled with a far-away look, and he buttoned his overcoat and drew down the flaps of his cap. Outside the storm still raged. The wind was growing higher. It howled and whistled around the corners, rattling the windows and shaking the doors. The snow would cover his tracks in five minutes. Of course the woman would die—she and the kid. But what difference? She was the wife of his worst enemy, and the kid would be his brat.
"I furthermore swear that—"
Damn those memories of other days! Wraithlike, they insisted on appearing before him. For some reason, he could not get them out of his mind. And damn that old fool, Hippocrates, and his non-sensical oath! What business was it of his? He had long ago given up medicine. Let the woman die if she wanted to.
But the baby! Curse the baby! Of course it was the sheriff's flesh and blood—but it was innocent. Why did the
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