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PRESSURE P
GEORGE AGNEW
CHAi IBERLAINH ♦
COPYRIGHT* 6EOR6E AGNEW CHAMBERLAIN * • W.N.U. SERVICE
I -
CHAPTER II
Her departure left Blackadder
breathless and somewhat confused.
He continued to stand with his back
to the mantel, staring at her as if
her hurrying figure were still in
sight, filling his eyes. And he had
thought she was licked! He became
aware of Irma’s murmuring voice.
“You were wonderful, Helm, but
I knew you would be, I was sure of
it. The minute I thought of you the
load began to lift off my shoulders
and now, whatever happens, it’s
gone. But let’s forget trouble. I
can’t tell you what it means to me
to see you standing there like a pil
lar giving sense and reason to ev
erything in the room, including
me.”
She smiled up at him expectantly.
His lips pajted but it was ordained
the maid should enter then.
“It’s Mr. Kirkpatrick, ma’am.”
The young man entered, flamboy
ant as to hair, complexion, manner
and clothes. “Michael, you know
Mr. Blackadder, don’t you?”
“Sure thing,” said Mike, ho’ding
out his hand.
Blackadder beat him to the grip
and almost crushed his knuckles,
then let go too quickly for a come
back. Mrs. Sewell came to the res
cue.
“You can go right up, Michael.
You’ll find Joyce in her sitting
room. I—l wish you luck.”
Something in the manner of her
final words made Kirkpatrick glance
at her curiously. He nodded and
started for the back where a side
staircase supplemented the one in
the main hall. Arriving at Joyce’s
door he knocked softly, pretended
he heard an answering call, turned
the knob and stepped in. Joyce was
on her knees before the petaca, in
the act of fitting a clumsy key into
the homemade lock.
“Where did you find the Ellis is
land trunk?” he asked jovially.
1 She turned her head and stared
up at him out of unbelieving eyes.
“It was my father’s,” she answered
automatically. Then she rose, hold
ing tight to the key, and stood at
her full height. “What are you do
ing here?” she demanded. “Who
told you you could come in?”
He backed against the door until
the latch clicked shut. “You did.
2 knocked and I thought I heard you
say, ’Come in.’ ”
4 J ‘You were mistaken. Please go.”
“Aw, get off the horse, Joycie.
you talk from the floor for
once in vouf life?"
Abruptly her frown deepened.
“Did they send for you?”
. “V.’ho?”
“Mr. Blackadder and my step
mother.”
“They did not; I brought myself.”
“Then take yourself away.”
“What’s the rush, Joycie, now I’m
here? Listen, let’s have a show
down. I’ve told you over and over
again I can give you a lot of things
and so can you me, but I’ve done
all the crawling I’m going to do.
Besides, I’ve just had a tip. I may
not know books like some of your
rah-rah friends, but I can see out
of both eyes. So I’m asking you for
the last time—will you marry me or
won’t you?”
111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111l
BLftKELY THEATRE
Thurs.-Fri., Oct. 21-22
“LOVE UNDER FIRE”
With LORETTA YOUNG, DON AMECHE
Saturday, Oct. 23
808 STEELE in
“RED ROPE”
LATE SHOW SATURDAY NIGHT 10:30
MARTIN JOHNSON’S
“BORNEO”
Mon.-Tues., Oct. 25-26
“TOAST OF NEW YORK”
EDWARD ARNOLD, CARY GRANT,
FRANCES FARMER
Wednesday, Oct. 27
“SHE’S NO LADY”
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllli!lllllllllllllllllllllll!l!l!l!llllllllll'lll!llll!l!ll!llllllll!!!ll
T T won’t, now or ever.”
He stepped toward her, his fingers
itching but his eyes frightened and
wet. Abruptly he stopped. Why?
He didn’t know. She had not moved.
She stood with the big key held
tightly in her right hand as though
it were a dagger. Pressed against
her dark dress her fist seemed small
and white yet powerful. She had
brought him to a halt with only a
look—a look of loathing beyond
words. He turned, tore open the
door and rushed from the room.
Joyce knelt on the floor, then bent
over the little rawhide trunk, turned
the key and raised the lid. A pun
aF 'l;
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Me Stf '<■
7/ ■ tSt/ A
ft \ ®
A Pungent Odor of
Age-Old Paper.
gent odor of age-old paper, rust,
leather and rotting tape greeted her
nostrils.
Her father’s last years had left
her memory of a weakling, a lov
able weakling. Now, immersed in
his fervent letters and shocked by
the impersonal frigidity of the re
plies they had evoked, she saw him
in his true proportions as a martyr
burned at the stake. Slowly, day
after day, month after month, yet
uttering no cry. Unshed tears stung
in her eyes, blinding her. Anger
at injustice mounted into rage and
rage into the incandescent heat that
tempers steel to a cutting edge. He
had left no son to avenge his wrongs
—only a girl. She dug her nails into
the palms of her hands. Some day,
somehow, she would find away.
Again there came a knock at her
door, a hesitant knock quite unlike
her stepmother’s.
“Who is it?” she whispered
hoarsely.
“It’s me, Miss Joyce,” answered
the maid’s voice. “I’ve brought you
a letter and a bit of supper.”
“Thanks, Ellen, I don’t want
a thing to eat. Please slip the let
ter under the door.”
It was long and without a stamp,
■ probably a circular. Her inclina
j tipn was to let it lie, but abruptly
EARLY COUNTY NEWS, BLAKELY, GEORGIA
she was seized by its similarity to a
dozen envelopes in the petaca, all
bearing the penalty-for-private-use
formula. A pale yellow slip flut
tered to the floor as she tore open
the official envelope and unfolded
the letter within. She read it at a
glance, then again slowly, word by
word: “At the instance of the Mexi
can ambassador, who has deposited
the necessary funds, I beg to en
close a warrant on the Treasury of
the United States for SIO,OOO, com
pensation in full for the death of Ann
Burden Sewell. Your endorsement
will be sufficient receipt.”
She caught up the pale yellow slip.
Sitting cross-legged she stared and
stared at it, for it looked like no
check she had ever seen. Yet its
purport was unmistakable the
Treasury of the United States held
SIO,OOO at her disposal. The finger
of fate was upon her. If this amaz
ing windfall had come an hour
1 sooner she might have signed it over
to her stepmother, flung it at her
with actual joy, in payment for back
rent and board. But not now—no,
not now. She put her arms around
the petaca, pressed her cheek
against its arabesques of brass
tacks and bowed her head as if she
were making a vow. Presently she
went to bed, but lay awake for a
long time, dreaming, planning, then
.floating off into a restful haze mid
way between sleep and conscious
ness.
In the morning she was up early.
She drank her coffee with eyes on
the clock and shortly after nine was
being shown into the private office
of the president of the City National
bank. Toward the last Mr. Bradley
had been her father’s only remain
ing friend.
“It’s Joyce,” she reminded him, ;
“Joyce Sewell.”
“Why, of course! How you’ve
grown, my dear. You’re lovely!”
“Mr. Bradley, are bankers like
doctors, lawyers, and priests? I
mean are they bound to keep a se
cret if you ask them to?”
“They are and they aren’t. A
court order can open wide our
mouths and our vaults, but short of
that we’re bound to respect our cli
ents’ wishes. Why? Have you a se
cret you want to deposit?”
“Yes; oh, yes.”
He leaned toward her and asked
in a whisper, “Is it about the check
for ten thousand?” She sank back,
her eyes wide, the color draining
from her cheeks. He patted her
knee reassuringly and chuckled.
“There, there, that was a mean
trick. Nobody knows but me, my
dear. It was I who supplied your
name and address.”
“Oh!” breathed Joyce. “Please
don’t ever do a thing like that to me
again!”
“You’re safe. I doubt whether
I’ll ever have any other chance. But
why the secrecy?”
“Because I’m going away and I
don’t want anybody to know
where.” She leaned forward. “Mr.
Bradley, you know my father’s sto
ry, don’t you?”
“No man knows it better, and that
goes for his one-time lawyers.”
“I learned it last night,” said
Joyce. “I read every letter, every
paper, every deed back to the origi
nal grant from the king of Spain. Is
there any doubt La Barranca be- ;
longed to my father?”
“None whatever. He had as clear I
a title as I have to my hat or my j
coat or anything else I’ve paid for I
in cash.” I;
“Then it’s mine now.”
“I wish I could answer no to that,
but I can’t.”
“Have you a conscience, Mr.
Bradley?” she asked soberly.
“Me?” he exclaimed, puzzled and
astonished.
“I was wondering whether it’s
ever right to—to take your con
science and choke it.”
His eyes twinkled violently but he
did not laugh. “I see. What’s your
conscience been telling you to do?”
“Give this money to my step
mother.”
“What for?”
“Well, for all she’s done—keeping
me all these years.”
Mr. Bradley’s eyes shone with a I
strange and increasing fire. “Who’s
been stuffing your head with that?”
he demanded. “Anyway, let me
i put you straight. In the first place .
1 step-parents are required by law to i
[ do what’s been done for you; it’s
: an integral part of their original
| bargain. In the second Irma’s I
; kindness ruined your father by
! keeping him from going to work. |
In the third, since she’s a do-good
to-others addict, she’s had her mon
| ey’s worth out of the two of you '
ten times over.”
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“You don’t know what you’ve done
for me. Now I can do what I’ve :
been planning; I can go.”
“Where to, Joyce?”
She looked at him steadfastly.
“All those years my father stayed
here, Mr. Bradley. But La Bar
ranca isn’t here; it’s in Mexico. I’m
going to Mexico.”
Joyce laid the warrant, already
endorsed, on Mr. Bradley’s desk
and rose. “I’m leaving the money
with you, but you understand I may
need a great deal of it any day,
don’t you?”
“Sit down, Joyce,” he said sober
ly. “Do you know what I’ve been
asking myself?”
“No, sir,” said Joyce, sinking to
the edge of her chair.
“If I had a girl—your age, your
looks, your background what
: would I want some other fellow to
Ido in this particular case?” He
frowned., “Os course you remem-
ber Mexico, but do you remember
what happened?”
She sat staring at the floor, not
I answering at once. “I know what
you mean,” she said finally, “and
I’ll try to explain. I remember ev
erything, but I've found out that be
ing far away from a thing like that
I doesn’t help you to forget—it makes
I it into a picture on the wall. Then
there’s something else. Places go
by contrasts, don’t they? I won’t
say anything about Elsinboro; all
I can tell you is that when I’ve been
unhappy, when I’m most miserable.
I look back and dream of happiness
and La Barranca.” She swept her
eyes to his face. “My mother isn’t
here, Mr. Bradley. I mean she
couldn’t possibly come to Elsinboro
—not even in my thoughts. Does
that sound foolish to you?”
“Not foolish, my dear,” he mur
mured, “not at all foolish.”
Touched by his understanding she
reached out one hand impulsively
and laid it on his arm. “Oh, Mr.
Bradley, please be my friend. You
can help me so much! My passport,
a letter of credit, but that’s not all.
You know my stepmother. Father
used to keep telling me she’s a good
woman. Well, she is, but if she
finds out what I’m doing or where
I am I’ll have two fights on my
hands instead of one.”
“How are you going to work it?
How will you get away?”
“I’ve thought it all out. I can
say I’m going to Frances Holder’s
for a visit.”
“H’m. But they’ll trace you. Now
adays a deliberate disappearance
is one of the hardest things on earth
to stage.”
“I’ve thought of that too.” She
gave him a look so composed it
j set his blood to tingling. “If I go
by air, where will I be by the time
they begin their tracing?”
He blinked at her admiringly.
“Joyce, I’ve made up my mind.
I’ll do everything I can to help you
and I promise I’ll keep my mouth
tight shut till you say the word.”
On the same impulse they rose
to their feet and stood with right
hands half extended, not quite
touching. “You’re awfully young,
Joyce, and most people would say
I ought to be jailed for letting you
go. But you’ve got heart as well
as head, and as for youth—what’s
it for? To spend while it’s strong.”
He proved as good as his word
and better, for he could see a lot
further ahead than Joyce. Within
ten days not only did he arrange
that her passport for travel abroad
should come direct from the State
department rather than through the
local county clerk, but he coached
her on her deportment in the mean
time toward her stepmother, pro
vided her with a certified copy of
her father’s will, warned her about
excessive baggage and bought her
tickets by air in a fictitious name.
Later, without detection, she
boarded a plane at Elsinboro’s al
most deserted airport that connect
ed at Newark with a night plane
south.
(To be continued next week)
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Statement of the Ownership, Man
agement, Circulation, Etc., Re
quired by the Act of Congress of
August 24, 1912, and March 3,
1933, of Early County News, Pub
lished Weekly at Blakely, Ga., for
October 1, 1937.
Georgia—Early County:
before me, Clerk of the Superior
Court of State and county aforesaid,
personally appeared A. T. Fleming,
who, having been duly sworn accord- j
i'ng to law, deposes and says that he !
is the editor and business man
ager of the Early County News,
and that the foregoing is, to
the best of his knowledge and belief,
a true statement of the ownership,
management, etc., of the aforesaid
publication for the date shown in
the above caption, required by the
Act of August 24, 1912, as amended
by the Act of March 3, 1933. embod
ied in section 537, Postal Laws and
Regulations:
1. That the names and addresses
of the publisher, editor, managing
editor, and business managers are:
Publishers —A. T. Fleming, Blake
ly, Ga.; W. H. Fleming, Blakely, Ga.
Editor —A. T. Fleming, Blakely,
Ga. .
Managing Editor —A. T. Fleming.
Business Manager—A. T. Flem
ing, Blakely, Ga.
2. That the owners are:
A. T. Fleming, Blakely, Ga.
W. H. Fleming, Blakely, Ga.
3. That the known bondholders,
mortgagees, and other security hold
ers owning or holding 1 per cent
or more of total securities are:
Mrs. J. H. Hill, Blakely, Ga.
Miss Lucille Barksdale, Blake
ly ’ Ga ' A. T. FLEMING,
Editor & Bus. Mgr.
* * *
State of Georgia, County of
Early, ss.:
Sworn to and subscribed before
me, this 9th day of October, 1937.
’ BERT TARVER,
Clerk Superior Court, I
Early County, Ga.
Jenny Lind’s Grave
Jenny Lind, the Swedish nightin
gale, is buried in Malvern, England.
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