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|cOPYRIGHT‘INEZ-HAYNES-IRWIN W.N.U. SERVICEI
THURSDAY
Again I spent a troubled night.
It was not so much that I did not
sleep. I slept fitfully; for now ex
hausted nature was demanding her
toll. It was more that dreams
bothered me— broken dreams with-
logic or continuity, great, loom
ing, shadowy scenes which glided
with an incredible ease and rapidi
ty, one into the other, blended for
an interval and then by some in
conceivable magic separated and
changed again. Worries! And all
major worries! Walter and Molly!
Margaret Fairweather! And—my
thoughts always broke here and
melted into a kind of dim, troubled
confusion.
However, I was up and dressed
as soon as I had finished my break
fast. When I came downstairs, I
found Sylvia occupying herself with
Dorinda Belle on the piazza.
“How does it happen that you’re
not down at the Merry Mere?” I
demanded.
“Nancy isn’t coming over to
day,” Sylvia informed me. “And
I thought I’d stay up here. I think
I’ll make a new dress for Dorinda
Belle.”
She was sitting on a little foot
stool beside one of the Gloucester
hammocks. Beside her was her
little work-basket.
Over the cusions lay bits of
dress material which I had given
her from time to time; patches of
silk and chiffon; snippets of ribbon;
tags of lace. She was threading
an enormous darning-needle. I took
it that Dorinda Belle’s sorry ward
robe —much the worse for play near
the water—was about to be replen
ished.
“This child hasn’t a thing to
wear!” Sylvia announced in the ac
cents, faintly disgusted, faintly in
dignant, which I had heard so
many times from her mother’s
mouth. “She is a perfick disgrace.
I’m ashamed of her. She’s got to
have a whole new wardrobe. She
doesn’t take care of her clothes at
all. She gets them dirty. She
spills her oatmeal all down the
front. She catches her clothes in
the blackberry vines. She’s a per
fickly terrible, terrible child some
times.”
Energetic nodding and vehement
emphasis accompanied this dia
tribe. Os course, like all mothers,
Sylvia was enjoying the utter unre
generation of her offspring and of
course, like all children, she was
quoting grown-up violences of ex
pression. Indeed, when she had fin
ished, she looked up at me with a
sunny smile. Then she set her lips
* again. “She ought to be sent to a
reform school.”
I wondered where Sylvia had re
ceived her education in regard to
reform schools and then I remem
bered that that was a pet phrase
with Bessie in regard to naughty
children.
“But after all,” 1 remonstrated,
“it seems to me, Sylvia, that Do
rinda Belle is a pretty good child.
She’s very quiet about the house.
She treats your other dolls very
well.”
Compunction apparently hit Syl-
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiim
BLAKELY THEATRE
Thurs.-Fri., Dec. 10-11
LAUREL and HARDY in
“OUR RELATIONS”
Saturday, Dec. 12
“THE TRAITOR”
with TIM McCOY
Also SERIAL and COMEDY
Mon.-Tues., Dec. 14-15
“TO MARY WITH LOVE”
with WARNER BAXTER and MYRNA LOY
Wednesday, Dec. 16
“ALL AMERICAN CHUMP”
with STUART ERWIN and BETTY FURNESS
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIN
via hard. “She’s a "beautiful child!”
she admitted remorsefully. She
picked Dorinda Belle up from the
hammock. She was still kissing
the china face when Patrick drove
up to the door.
“I left pretty suddenly yester
iay, Mary,” he apologized, “but
t gave me such a—what my old
{randmother used to call—*a turn’
o hear that story from Walter
tnd Molly.”
As though by mutual consent, we
withdrew to the living-room to get
way from Sylvia. "It’s haunted
ne all night,” I admitted.
“Mary,” Patrick said, “I guess
ze’ve got to admit that from some
■oints of view, Ace was a pretty
■ad actor.”
“It wasn’t exactly a surprise,” I
greed, “and yet it was a surprise
00. Os course before we go any
urther, I’ll have to tell you, Patrick,
that I believe every word Walter
said.”
“So do I.”
“But,” I went on, “I had no idea
that Ace was capable of such—l
wouldn’t have believed that he
would have tried to compel Mol
ly ”
“Well, you see, Ace was spoiled
as far as women were concerned.
He’d always had his way with
them. That’s bad medicine for any
man. Especially, if a man lets it
get him. And Ace let it get him.
When he was young, as you and I
knew well enough, he was a chaser.
I dont know why I call him a chas
er. He was chased much more
than he chased. Girls fell for him
in all directions. I think you’re
the only one who ever gave him
his come-uppance, Mary.”
“Ace never was in love with me,
Patrick.”
“Perhaps not. He’s always tak
en you for granted, that you were
within hand’s reach so to speak. He
felt that he could close his fist on
you at any time. But when Mark
began to specialize on you he didn’t
like it. Believe me, he didn’t like
it, Mary. He couldn’t do anything
about it though. I must confess I
took a great deal of private satis
faction out of that.”
“Ace and Mark and I were al
ways good friends,” I commented.
“That’s right! And Ace and I
were great friends. Damn it all, I
loved Ace. I love him still. That
story Walter told me yesterday
rocked me more than anything
that’s happened in a long time. But
there was something about Ace—”
“I suppose he had more natural
charm than any human being I
have ever known,” I tried to sum
it up. “The most delightful per
sonality!”
“It was that charm that ruined
him,” Patrick carried my thought
on. “It brought him so many
things when he was young that he
thought he could keep it up for
ever. Yet, by God, I shall always
feel about Ace ”
“It’s one of the puzzles of life,”
I said. “Once or twice in a life
time, this happens to everyone.
Charm is as strong as the force of
gravity. People who have it sweep
our hearts along in the very face
of disapproving judgment. That
was Ace.”
EARLY COUNTY NEWS, BLAKELY, GEORGIA
I think I raised my voice a lit
tle; for Sylvia, suddenly abandon
ing her dress-making, seized a
freshly dressed Dorinda Belle and
came pattering into the living
room. She seated herself on a
cricket beside tne >ow table on
which stood a telephone extension.
“Patrick,” she said, “did you know
that Doctor Ace had gone to Heav
en?”
Before Patrick could answer the
question, her eyes, wandering over
the surface of the table, fell on a
little Dresden box there. Now
Sylvia has been brought up not to
touch bric-a-brac or books without
permission. She is an extremely
docile child and I cannot recall that
she has ever broken anything in
my house. Now her eyes fixed
themselves hard on that Dresden
box. Her fixed gaze recalled no
association to me, but apparently
it suggested vaguely something to
her. Suddenly she jumped up from
her cricket and lifted the cover.
“Oh there it is!” she exclaimed.
“There’s the beautiful buckle I
found. I forgetted all about it. I
found it—l found it ”
Her eyes seemed to look inward
in the effort of her concentration.
“I found it the day after the party.”
A silence as bleak and cold as
ice seemed to fall on my piazza.
For when Sylvia’s tiny fingers lifted
the brilliant buckle—old paste and
old silver—from the box, a series
of mental cataclysms shook me.
They came as fast as successive
shots from a revolver. Instantly I
recalled Sylvia’s entrance to the pi
azza early Saturday afternoon, car
rying a Dorinda Belle who glittered
with a magnificent an alien
—splendor. I remembered taking
the buckle from her and, as the
telephone rang, slipping it into the
Dresden box. Suddenly too now,
I recalled, though I had not re
called it then, that that buckle was
one of a pair which ornamented the
slipper which Myron Marden wore
at the masquerade. Instantly too,
I recalled another thing that I
would have said must have depart
ed completely from my memory—
departed, leaving no trace behind.
And that was an event of Sunday
morning—waking and going to the
bathroom for a drink of water, re
turning and for an instant gazing
out my window onto the fog-laden
scene. What I saw in that instant
merged completely from my mind
in the oblivious weariness with
which I again sank back into sleep.
Yet now, I saw the picture perfect
ly—Myron Marden coming out of
my Spinny and up over my lawn in
the direction of the park and of his
own Lome.
Patrick’s eyes had narrowed.
Never had I heard silkier accents
than those which emerged at that
moment from his throat. “Come
over here, Sylvia,” he wheedled. “I
want to talk with you. Bring the
buckle with you.”
Sylvia pattered over to him and
he lifted her onto his lap. She
opened her little fist and they sur
veyed the paste together.
“How it sparkles!” Patrick com
mented. “How lucky you were to
find it! When did you say you
picked it up?”
“Saturday afternoon,” Sylvia an
swered with a childish explicitness.
“Right after lunch!”
“And where did you say you
found it?” Patrick asked, turning
the buckle this way and that, so
that it flashed fire.
“Near the path to the Spinney.”
“Where were you going?” Pat
rick asked in the most casual of
tones.
“I was going to the Little House
and I saw this buckle in the path.
So I runned right back to get a
ribbon to tie it on Dorinda Belle.”
“Now, who do you suppose,” Pat
rick went on, “that buckle belongs
to?”
“Oh I know now,” Sylvia an
nounced. “Doctor Marden wore it
on his shoe.”
“Sylvia,” Patrick went on, “did
you see anybody go out of the
Stow house the night of the mas
querade—l mean anybody besides
Molly Eames and Walter Tread
way?”
I remembered now that Patrick
had asked Sylvia a similar ques
tion once before. However, he had
not waited for the reply and I had
not thought it important.
Sylvia leaned her head back
against Patrick’s chest. She looked
up into his face, smiling her most
sunny smile. “Yes,” she an
swered. “Doctor Marden.”
“When did you see him go?”
Patrick asked in a friendly way.
“And what door did he go out of?”
Sylvia snuggled close against
him. “You see,” she wen< on in
the most confidential manner, “I
went out into the kitchen. Nobody
was there. All the girls had gone
downstairs into the cellar to—l for
get what—Oh, I know, they wanted
to look at the ice cream.”
Patrick made big eyes at her.
“All of them?” he asked in an
astounded voice.
“Every one of them!” Sylvia re
plied with finality.
“You mean that there wasn’t a
single one of the girls there?” Pat
rick kept it up. “Not Sarah, nor
Bessie, nor Caddie, nor Jessie, nor
Little Alice ”
“There wasn’t anybody but me,”
Sylvia asserted.
“Wasn’t that wonderful?” Patrick
commented.
“Go on and tell me about Doc
tor Marden,” he said.
“Well, Doctor Marden came out
into the kitchen.”
“Did he see you?”
Hl '
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M MiQ
“Oh, 1 Know Now,” Sylvia An
nounced.
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He didn’t say anything. He put
ted his finger on his lips—just like
this.” Sylvia’s tiny forefinger and
thumb moved upwards to press her
Hps close but the lips pouted out
wards as they emitted a gentle,
“Sh—sh—sh! ”
“And didn’t you say anything?”
Sylvia’s eyes grew sparkly with
mischief. “No, I didn’t say a word.
I just did this.” She put her fore
finger to her lips and emitted a
“Sh—sh—sh!”
“And then what did Doctor Mar
den do?”
“Well, he went out through the
pantry and into the garage and I
heard him open that little door in
the back wall of the garage.”
Idiots all of us! Suddenly I re
membered that little door! Os
course Patrick had posted no po
liceman there. It was extremely
unlikely that any guests would en
ter that door, would even remem
ber its existence—if indeed they
had ever known of it. Mattie her
self rarely used it.
“I should have thought Doctor
Marden would have got all dirty
going out that way,” Patrick com
mented.
“Oh,” Sylvia explained, “he
weared his long dark cape. It was
in the garage.”
“How do you know he put it on?”
“He came back to the door of
the kitchen and he said, ‘Sh—sh—
sh!’ and he putted his finger to his
lips again. And I said, ‘Sh—sh—
sh!’ and I putted my finger to my
lips.”
I knew the garment very well.
The heavy, dark cape that the
French peasants wear. Doctor Mar
den’s tall, thin figure in that dark
blue cape and the dark blue beret
which matched it was an accepted
detail of the Second Head roads.
“And did you see Doctor Marden
come back to the party?” Patrick
asked.
“Yes.”
“Did he come back soon?”
“Yes.”
“Was it a long time like this?”
Patrick put his hands about a yard
apart. “Or a little time like this?"
Patrick drew his hands towards
each other until the space of a foot
lay between them.
“It was a littler time like this,”
Sylvia answered. With the utmost
care, she placed her slim, brown
little paws first about nine inches
apart; then about six.
Patrick kissed her. “And were
you still in the kitchen when Doc
tor Marden came back?”
“Yes.”
“Who was there?”
“Oh lots and lots and lots of
people!”
“I forget,” Patrick mused aloud,
“was Doctor Marden in Mrs. Stow’s
house when they unmasked, Syl
via?”
“Oh yes!” Sylvia said.
Over Sylvia’s head again Patrick
looked at me questioningly. Again
I nodded in assent.
“Did Doctor Marden have on his
mask the first time he came into
the kitchen?” Patrick asked.
“Yes,” Sylvia answered.
“How did you know it was Doctor
Marden then?”
“Oh, when he putted his finger to
his lips and said, ‘Sh—sh—sh’ he
lifted his mask way up and he
winked at me.”
Patrick sat motionless for a tiny
interval. Suddenly, but with ut
most gentleness, he put Sylvia
down. “I think Sylvia will want to
go out and see Sarah Darbe,” he
signaled to me. He took the buckle
from Sylvia’s reluctant fingers and
dropped it into his pocket. Then
he hurried swiftly across the room
to the telephone, called up the sta
tion. “Get two men over here at
once!” he ordered. “Put them on
the Marden house. Don’t let Doc
tor Marden leave the house until
he hears from me. I’m phoning
him to come to Mrs. Avery’s house.
See that he comes!”
Then he took up the telephone
again and called a number. “I’d
like to talk with Doctor Marden,
please ... Oh good morning, Doc
tor Marden. This is Patrick O’Brien
speaking. I’m talking from Mrs.
Avery’s house. I’d like to see you
here at once. I have some fur
ther questions to ask you in regard
to the Blaikie case.”
Good Advice from Wise Old
SANTA CLAUS
The days between now
and Christmas will be full of
activities for every housewife.
Why should she crowd them
with unnecessary burdens?
There is no need for any
housewife in Blakely” or vi
cinity to bake any— /k 7 I
CHRISTMAS CAKES
We have just received a fresh shipment of
FRUIT CAAES
Try Them.
A AAAAA
FRYER’S MARKET
It seemed to me that my life
had reduced itself to waiting—wait
ing for people to come in cars.
Waiting—and trying not to trem
ble; for I was always poignantly
troubled about some friend or oth
er. I remember that while I wait
ed for Myron Marden, moods
chased each other through my
mind. One was a kind of despair
ing impatience. How long was this
ghastly suspense to last? Could it
be possible that the mystery would
never be solved; that we would all
go down to death never knowing
who had killed Ace Blaikie? The
other was more desperate. I kept
reminding myself, that after all,
I really knew—of my own knowl
edge—nothing about Myron Marden
and his granddaughter. I had ac
cepted them on their face value.
I had accepted them on the ac
ceptance of Ace Blaikie and Bruce
Hexson. But now I recalled to my
self how easily friendships were
made between men who were in the
World war . . . out of nothing . . .
out of anything . . . fleeting as a
whisper . . . strong as iron cables
. . . Yet every instinct I had, ev
ery intuition, every ounce of that
judgment which comes from experi
ence of the world kept telling me,
kept shouting to me that these two
were everyting I thought they were.
That last feeling arose so strong
ly in me when Myron Marden soon
entered the room that again the
tears pricked for a salty instant in
my eyes. He came immediately
over to my chair, bowed in his court
ly continental way over my hand,
turned with a “Good morning, Mr.
O’Brien!” to Patrick.
I had not seen him since the fu
neral. I noted how pale and tired
he was then. This day he looked
ravaged.
“Won’t you sit down?” I asked.
Doctor Marden did not sit down.
He stood—his whole graceful easy
length subtly emanating question—
and looked at Patrick.
Patrick, who had risen as he en
tered and was still standing, steadi
ly returned that gaze. Rarely have
I seen a greater contrast in men.
Marden exuded that unanalyzable
suggestion, alien in manner and
clothes, which expatriates so often
acquire unconsciously; his deep
dark coloring; his distinguished, ir
regular aquilinity; Patrick with his
perfect athlete’s figure, so light in
pose, so perfect in poise and bal
ance, his sun-shot Irish coloring,
his regular Celtic features.
Patrick explained, “I want'to ask
you some questions, Doctor Mar
den. I ventured to suggest that
you come here as I have been us
ing Mrs. Avery’s home as a sort of
annex to the police station. It
makes the whole business a little
less unpleasant and we have no
kibitzers. You realize that more
evidence in this Blaikie case comes
in from time to time. Then we
have to go over what everybody
else has said and check up. I
wanted to ask you a few more
questions in regard to Mrs. Stow’s
masquerade.”
“Quite!” Doctor Marden assent
ed. He sat down.
“I must tell you, Doctor Mar
den,” Patrick added, thrusting his
keenest glance across the space
between them, “that in case of sus
picion being turned upon you, any
thing you say here may be held
against you and that there is a
witness present.”
Doctor Marden made a depreca
tory gesture outward of his long,
(Continued on page 5)
BLAKELY CHAPTER 44 R. A. M
Blakely Chapter 44
»■ Royal Arch Masons
m ®ets on the second
an d fourth Monday
of each monti
| at 8 o’clock. Visiting
W companions invited.
g Oscar Whitchard,
High Priest
J J- O. Standifer,
Secretary.
Try the News for Job Printing.
Governor-elect E. D. Rivers has
announced the appointment of Capt.
John E. Stoddard, of Washington,
Ga., as Adjutant General of Geor
gia. He will socceed Lindley Camp.
CITATION
GEORGIA, Early County:
To Whom It May Concern:
Mrs. P. W. Hart, of said State,
having, in proper form, applied for
permanent letters of administration
on the estate of B. G. Holly, late of
said County, deceased, this is to cite
all and singular the creditors and
next of kin of B. G. Holly, deceased,
to be and appear at the Court of
Ordinary of said County, at the
January term, 1937, and show cause,
if any they have or can, why per
manent letters of administration
should not be granted to said Mrs.
P. W. Hart on said estate.
Witness my official signature,
this Bth day of December, 1936.
D. C. MORGAN, Ordinary.
ADMINISTRATOR’S SALE
GEORGIA—EarIy County:
By virtue of an order from the
court of Ordinary of Early County,
will be sold, at public outcry, on the
First Tuesday in January, 1937, at
the court-house door in said county,
between the legal hours of sale, the
following described lands: 42 acres
of land out of a 50 acre tract in
the northeast corner of lot of land
number 109 in the 6th district of
Early County, Georgia, lying south
of the Blakely and Damascus road,
and bounded on the north by lands
of C. C. Willis, on the south by
lands of E. C. McDowell, on the
east by lands of Mrs. W. M. Lewis,
on the west by lands of E. C. Mc-
Dowell, the same to be sold for cash.
This Bth day of December, 1936.
C. C. WILLIS,
Admr. of J. D. Willis Estate.
THE SIRMONS ESTATE
HAS FOR SALE THE FOLLOWING
PROPERTY:
House and lot where M. W.
Branch now lives,
House and lot where S. Starr now
lives,
Vacant lot south of D. C. Sanders
dwelling,
Vacant mercantile lot in Damas
cus, Ga.,
775 acres land known as Hall
place, about seven miles south of
Arlington, in Early county, east side
Arlington-Damascus public road; al
so:
Five (5) shares stock in Arling
ton Warehouse Company.
Terms if desired.
And and all interested parties will
please communicate with Adminis
trators Estate C. W. Sirmons.
B. W. FORTSON,
R. O. McNAIR,
B. C. RAY,
Executors Will C. W. Sirmons.
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