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«+ THE ATLANTA GEORGIANS MAGAZINE AND FICTION PAGE .
Revelations of a Wife
Ry Adele Garrison.
WHAT HAPPENED DURING THE
MEMORABLE FIRST NIGHT AT
THE COSGROVE FARMHOUSE.
ICKY'S face was a study when
D I told him that I believed
Mrs. Allis, our fellow board
er at the Cosgrove farmhouse in
the Catskills, intended to steal the
valuable collection of paintings in
the farmhouse parlor.
He looked at me for a long min
ute, his face blank with amaze
ment. Then he threw back his
bhead and laughed heartily in a way
that I dislike intensely.
“If it were in the summer time 1
should say that, the heat had af
fected your brain,” he said, “but
it’s been cool today, 8o I'm afraid
you're really going nutty. Odd 4
didn't notice any symptoms of it
before. I think we'll have to have
medical advicee. Where does It
hurt you worst, dearest?” ¢
1 flushed painfully, for Dicky's
ridicule always hurts meé cruelly,
and turning toward the dresser I
busied myself with putting into
the drawers the contents of the
suit case and traveling bag. Dicky's
clothing I laid to one side, prepara
tory to putting it in his own room.
I hoped that by thus ighoring
Dicky's raillery and by affecting
to be busy he might forget my un
lucky speech concerning Mrs, Allis.
But my hope was fruitless, Dicky
spoke again, and this time the joc
ular note had gone from his voice,
“Look here, Madge,” he sald
gravely, “be mighty careful vou
don't say to any one else what
vou have just told me. You know
how obstinate you are when yon
get one of your theories. Going off |
on a tangent like this, with a ridic
ulous accusation agalnst a woman
about whom you know nothing, is
dangerous business.”
“It is not a foolish accusation”™ 1
returned coldly, “but a true one, as
1 shall prove to you bhefore our
week is out. But you need not be
afraid that I ghall hint my suspi
cions to any one else. T am not
anxious to make a fool of myself.”
* “No? lls that g 0?” Dicky drawled
in mock astonishment that made
my fingers itch to slap him. “Just
going to be a little Sherlock Holmes
ail by herself, isn't she? Well!
well! well!: What disguise do vou
think you will adopt?™
I turned my back upon him un
compromisingly and went on with
the arranging of my belongings.
A BET MADE. |
Dicky laughed softly, then, com- 1
ing up behind the, drew my head
back toward him and kissed me.
“Did her bad, matter of fact hus
bhand spoil all her yomantie deduc
tions.” he asked, with his cheek
against mine. “Well, he won't say
another word. Go on and prove
that the man who stole Charlle
Ross is lurking around here, for all
T care, just so vou don't tell any
body else abhout it.”
- T wanted to draw away from him,
to take refuge in cold silence, for T
felt that he had been unjust in his
ridicule. But I knew that resent
ing an apology of Dicky’s—for that
was what the caress and soothing
words amounted to—would be like
tinder to the spark of his anger,
Therefore, | rested passively In his
arms and said demurely:
“l surely shall not tall any onb
else, but I'd like to make a wager l
with you that the end of the week
Business of Homemaking
By Mrs. Christine Frederick.
WASTE IN HOUSEHOLD CLOS
ETS FILLED WITH
“STECHERY.”
HE economists often say that
l this is a thriftless age. We
are called a wasteful nation,
and have dinged into our ears the
tuite information that the French
or German or other European
housew.e could live in luxury on
what we throw away. But I have
another view of waste which seoms
all too familiar among certain
groups of housewives, and that is
the purchasing of articles, clothing
or utensils which are in no sense
investments, but sheer waste, [
kwow house after bouse where lif
an inventory were taken possibly
20 per cent of the household effects
would not be in use. ‘There is, for
fastance, the habit of buving small
amounts of fabrics, laces, mate
rials, ete., with the idea that “some
o.x I can use this for so-and-so.”
ut the chances are that the time
§s put off and put off, and that
there gradually grows an accumu
fation of what my good old Seotch
srandmcther ecalled ‘stechery.”
Boxes of remnants. strips of cloth,
bite’ of this and that, trimmings,
ali lald away kile not being of use,
and practicaliy dead investment,
There is one friend | have €and she
aughingly 2dmits her fault), who
haß an immense chest full of
Little Bobbie’s Pa
: By William F. Kirk.
ACH one (1) of us skolars had te
rite a artikel about a Grate In
ventor, #o 1 asked Pa wen 1 ecalm
hoam about who 1 shud rite '
Rite about Chris Columbo, = d I'a (he
ald meezer wich gol the first yood slant
at the erth, sed Pa.
What choice weords you nre singing
fonite, sed Ma. Do pot us uch
slang in front of our child
Well, sed Pa, Chris 8 Colurito was
a Ttalynn in Italy, sed Pa, v first
found out that we dident live fint
wurld, but on a round one. \1 rote a
poem for the weekly W' hoam
town, sed, Pa, tu' wich he %
Altho thie world of ours seer . fiat
Fereshully wen we arw broke,
This world is round, & !hfl;gw' foke
S ste this Truth inside P hat
?{ne\'vn rote any such ru''is
wod Mia,
Moo it from me, med Pa, that fs o«
vkt he rote. | red it in & old h
sumware wen 1 was a child erning ' v
firet ten thouennd a veer, sed Pa.
Are you going te talk sense to Bebl
& heln him with his essay, g or
mygt 1T help him? 0
I will belp him, sed Pa. T DRSS Joo
TfHE ATLANTA GEORGIAN ¢ n. 9
3 A Clean Newspaper for Southern Homes " 2R WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 11, 1920.
» will prove I am right in my sus
picion.” Y
Dicky whirléd me around, then
held me off with a quizzical look
with, which admiration was min
gled.
“Well, if you're not a sporting
proposition!” he said. “I'H just
take you on Qna!. What odds shall
I give you?” 4 '
“None,” 1 responded promptly.
“We'll make it a dlnner at Vanu
cetrys.”
“Done!” DPicky said, and then,
gtretching his arms up, he gave a
prodigious yawn, “I don't bellieve
I was ever so tired in my life,” he
said, “I'm not going to put these
things away until tomorrow,” He
gathered his belongings up reck
lessly, and strode into his own
room, between which and mine
there was a conneéting door, and
dumpedils clothing carelessly in a
‘ heap on™a chair, part of the things
- sliding off on the floor. .
“Oh, Dicky, Dicky!” T remon
strated, hurrying after him. “Wait,
I'll put these away for you.”
“You’ll put nothing away,” Dicky
returned, gsnateking up his pajamas
from the heap on the floor. “I'm
going to have this light out and be
in bed in twenty-eight seconds, and
I'd advise you to do the same. I'll
put all these things away in the
morning.' (Good might.”
I knew better than to irritate
him by persisting in arranging his
clothing. When Dicky is sleepy, he
is like a gpoiled child, and any light
or nolge in his room makes him
rage,
WHAT MADGE SAW.
So 'l went back into my own
room, hastily undressed and slipped
into bed, regretting that Dicky had
forgotten the promise he had made
to change its position, so that I
might see the mountains when T
first awoke in the morning.
In a few moments sounds from-
Dicky's room told me that he was
asleep and snoring, #8 he does when
he is very tired. But I could not
sleep. Underneath my window I
heard the sound of voices, which,
after a’while, died away into si
lence, It seemed hours that T lay
there in the stillness.
Then the long prolonged call of a
sereech owl sounded in my ears, I
had heard many of them®at the
country places where my mother
ard 1 had spent our vacations.
There was something about this
dne, however, that seemed differ
ent in some way to the call of any
owl I had ever heard before,
All at once the solution flashed
across my mind: it was not the call
of a bird, but a clever imitation, a
persistent signal.
1 crept out of bed and looked
from the window. The whistle
came from the direction of a tiny
building which hefore sunpi‘l had
noticed just showing throu the
trees some yards away from the
farmhouse. . ¢
In the Wdarkness T could see no
movement in that direction, but a
light in a small bungalow very near
wy side of the house, which I
thought must hold the Cosgrove
family when they had a house full
of guests, attracted my attention.
Shadows ‘were crossing and re
crossing hefore it
As T looked, the lamp was sud
denly turned low, the door opened,
and three stealthy figureg crept out
and hurried in the direction from
which the bird-call had come.
(To Be Continued.)
> ripped-up dresses, pieces and
erough materials to clothe an or
~ phanage. There is lying dollar
‘ after dollar's worth of unused ma
| terials. ¢
~_Again, most household closets
disclose not skeletons, as we are
led to believe by popular scandal
mongers, but apparatus, devices or
products unused by any member
of the family. There is, for in
stance, the exercises enthusiastical
lv purchased by mother “to re
dice,” and used by her fully four
times in a burst of middle-aged
vanity; father used a vibrator
- thrice, and then it was put on the
highest shelf of tho tallest closet
and forgotten. The famous remedy
that sigter hought to enhance tne
various charms lies also forlorn,
while a new nostrum is the pres
ert favorite,
All “stechery.” Now, yvou may
say that in the evolution of
the family certain furnishings must
naturally be outgrown and outs
worn; even then they have lived
throyeh usafulness. + But my point
is \hnt too. many of fthe contents
of Yhese boxes and closets were
unwisely chosen in the first place,
were bought for a caprice, for a
bargain, or because some one talked
you into it, not on a real hasis of
use and permanence. Purchasing—
how important it is—how far re
moved from fad and foible and
fancy. Yes, it is truly a fine art!
(Copyright, 1920, Wheeler Byndicate, Ine.)
told him the naim of A grate inventor,
old Chris Columbe. If he wants another
naim. sed Pa, 1 will invent one,
!’:nen you cud, sed Ma, but stick to
truth,
Wgll, sed Pa, a other grate inventor
was Ole Goof, the inventer of the pin
less veseline, mad Pa. He dident know
it: & being deespondent, he hanged his.
seif with the vary rope that wuld have
made him rich & famous, sed Pa. Poor
man, every tima [ heer the naim Goof 1
feel like erying.
1 doant hlame you, sed Ma. Goof is a
sad naim, to be sure. But If yvou are
going to be feolish all the ecovning 1
shall have to tell Bobhle ahout sum
grate invenshuns One grate inventor,
sod Ma, was Walt Whitman, the ine
ventor of the cotton gin, sed Ma.
Ha, Ha, #ed Pa, that man's naim was
Whitney. Walt "Whitman was a verse
many-fack-terer, sed Pa, & he nut everv.
thing in excen the cute little jingels, For
that resgon, sed Pa. he dident rite non
ular hits, But he was a wise old gink,
sed P, THe cotton min, sed Pa, was a
grate (pvenshun, but 1 supnposs we wont
see it any mear, now that the country
Las went dry, sed Pa,
Foble, sed Ma, yurs father is a grate
inventer, teo, inventing monr foolish
reemark® than any man lving, sed Ma.
T ————— e ——————
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) Good Night Stories l
By Blanch Silver.
GRANDPA OPOSSUM’'S TALE.
T was a great time for the three
l opossum children - Weedy,
Seedy and Lq'limmy Opossum-——
when their mame and daddy went
away and left them over at Grand
the supper dmhesh ‘Weedy Opossum
house. For just %s soon as
Grandma Opossum would clear up
the supper dishes, WeedyOpoessum
would run for Grandpa Opos
sum's slippers, Seedy hpnssum
would find the long clay pipe, and
Slimmy would push Grandma
Opossum’'s comfy chair up before
the fireplace and then the fun
would start.
Grandpa Opossum would always
take a long time in getting com
fortably fixed, th'en a longer time
filling and lighting his pipe, try
ing to think up a new story to tell
the youngsters,
“Surely you haven't:run out ot
stories,” laughed Weedy one eve
ning as Grandpa Opossum lay back
in his comfy chair and blew rings
of blue smoke into the air. “You
have another story to tell us.”
“Right you are, little féllow,”
laughed Grandpa Opossum clearing
his throat. “Shall it be a fairly
tale or—"
O, no, Grandpa!” cried the
three Opossum youngsters in one
voice. “Tell us a true story.”
“"me see—did 1 ever tell—well I
guess I never did, so here goes"
and Grandpa Opossum puffed hard
on his pipe before he continued.
“One, bright moonlight night
when your grandma and 1 were
young and foolish,” here Grandma
Opossum blushed and got so nerv
ous she nearly dropped a stitch in
her knitting. “She and I went out
t 6 a pawpaw party.”
Of course, Weedy wanted to
know what a pawpaw party was,
and Grandpa Opossum laughed and
told him that late in the fall when
the fruit on the pawpaw trees
were ripe the opossums from far
and near would gather under the
wide-spreading trees and have a
great party eating pawpaws,
“We had a glorious time,” con
tinued Grandpa Opossum. “We ate
and we danced until we couldn’t
eat or dance any more. Then we
bade our friends goodnight, and
yveur grandma and | started home.
On the way we had to pass a lovely
ponltry yard, and forgetting we had
filled up on pawpaws, ‘your
grandma and 1 decided we'd have a
chicken.
“We got the chicken: 1 gave it
to grandma, and she scooted
acrods the field. [ went back for
another, when, dear me, 1 found
myself caught in a trap, the farmer
standing over me. Well, [ acted as
if I was dead. He took me out of
the trap and la'd me at.one side.
For quite some time 1 played dead,
then when he turned around to
shut the chicken house more so-
T = .
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“Tell Us a True Story.”
A A N AN SIS
° :
curely 1 jumped up and glided
away.
“l 1 met Grapdma Opossum down
by the river. She was crying
bitterly, for I had been gone so
long she was afraid harm had be
fallen me. She had been chased
by the farmer’'s dog and had drop
ped the chicken in her flight, so
there we were, tired out, footsore
and not a chicken for all our trou
ble. Believe me, when we reached
home we vowed and declared we'd
never bother poultry yards again,
and we never have,
“That was a* dandy story,
grandpa.” cried Weedy, clapping
his hands. ‘“Tell us another!”
But Grandpa Opossum yawned,
and grandma’s knitting needle fell
to the floor for the third time, and
grandpa knew what that meant,
1t was time for them all to turn
into bed So, kissing the three
yvoungsters good night they all
trooped off to bed.
Rejecting a Compliment.
A well known membet of the
Stock Exchange, who is now giv
ing up the close of a strenuous
life to philanthropic efforts, was
in his heyday a tremendous gam
bler in stocks, and, incidentally,
he and his partner were rather ex
pert in the gentle art of making
enemies, One of these accosted
him with the pleasant remark:
“L.ook here, you are the biggest
thief on the Stock Exchange."
“Ah,” was the answer, “it is evident
you do not know my partner.”
Cuticura Talcum
e Fascimatingly Foagrant s
Always Healthful
Jo s “éfi;fififfifl_@'wlm‘
‘ Married Strangers !
By Frances Duvall.
LXIV.—A CLEAR SKY.
66 'VE spent the afternodn with
l dad. He's been bully, too.”
Bennett was lounging be
fore the wood fire that was kindled
each evening in Keitha's sitting
room to take away the chill of
the California twilight., His head
was flung back against the cushions
of the deep lounging chair and he
blew a ring of smoke ceiling ward,
smiling reminiscently.
Keitha, curled up on a chaise
lounge opposite, absently watched
the firelight playing on his featuves.
It threw into relief his st-ong ¢lean
chin and mouth and touched with
a caressing light the dark hair that
waved away from his temples.
The long length of him, as trig in
riding togs as in a uniform, was
spread gratefully to the fire. It
was sinful that any one man should
be so good looking, thought Keitha.
“Were you getting acquainted
again” asked Keitha.
“Getting acquainted for the first
time, rather,” he answered. “I never
understood dad before, nor he me.
But it was my fault, I guess, Lordl,
1 was a thoughtless chap before
this war! T looked on dad as a sort
of fire escape., If I got in a jam,
financial or otherwise. I knew dad
would be there to pull me out, and
1 was too selfish a cuss td be even
grateful.”
# Bennett paused a moment, then
continued slowly,
“So one time-—when he threw me
down—l—l acted like a fool. I
forgot all he'd done and told him
what I thought of a man who'd
let h"a son go thrqugh hell. It wasn't
very pretty—what told him. I guess
dad’'s a thoroughbred to he able to
overlook it now. But I'm sorry, God,
how sorry I am!”
He blew a_ breath of smoke to
wards the ceiling, watching it
writhe and curl in the twilight
gloom. Keitha remained silent, try
ing to piece together the hints of
the affair which had gcaused the
rupture in the Bennett househol?
She was too proud to ask for that
X ,
6 < @
7// ‘ N .% p
DIAMONDS
R 73PEACHTREE STREET ‘=
which would not be voluntarily
vouchsafed.
“But it's all right now,” said Ben
nett exhaling a deep breath. “We're
pals again, dad and I. I even be
lieve I'm going to make him proud
of me. Keitha,” he turned his face
toward her suddenly, “would you
be willing to remain here, or per
haps go to Hawalii for a part of the
yvear, and not return east at all?”
Keitha smiled into the twilight.
*“ls that a significant question or
merely an idle one?” \
“What a rigid little conservative
you are! You never even waste an
answer, do you? Well, I'll teil you:
the question is very significant. Dad
is getting on—he's beginning to feel
his years occasionally and he is so
impressed with my new found self,”
Bennett chuckled boyishly, “that he
wants to turn over part of his fi
nancial interests to me. It would
. mean a great deal more to start
than uncle’s brokerage ever would.
And believe me, little Lester’s new
found self isn’t too noble to jump
at a soft berth.”
“But what about Hawaii?’ asked
Keitha with puckered brows,
“Large quantities of dad’s inter
ests are located in sugar out there,
He'd turn that all over to me and
I'd have to keep a hand on the helm
part of each year."
“It sounds very alluring,” mur
mured Keitha. “I wouldn’t want to
interfere with your future in any
way, but——"
“Forget the usual objection,
Keitha, “he cut in impatiently, “Be
a sport for once in your life.”
(Copyright, 1920. Wheeler Syndicate, Inec.)
(To Be Continued.)
Maternal Indignation.
He's not what you would call
strictly handsome,” said the ma
jor, beaming through his glasses
on & baby as it lay howling in its
mother’'s arms, “but it's the kind
of face that grows on you.” “It's
not the kind of face that grew on
you,” was the reply of the fond
mother. “You'd be better looking
if it had.”
] The Cinema Murder
By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
CHAPTER XII.
HILIP let the pen slip at last
from his tired fingers. The
light had failed. He had
been writing with straining eyes,
almost in the darkness. But there
was something else. #Had it heen
fancy or * * * 'This time there
could be no mistake. He had not
heard the lift stop, but some one
was knocking softly at the door,
softly, but persistently. He turned
his head. The room seemed filled
with shadows. He haa written for
hours, and he was conscious that
his limbs were stiff. The sun had
gone down in a cloudy sky, and the
light had faded. He could scarcely
distinguish the articles of furniture
at the further end ofr the room. For
some reason or other he felt tongue
tied. Then, without any answer
from him to this mysterious sum
mons, the handle of the“door slowly
turned. As he sat there he saw it
pushed open. A woman, wrapped
in a long coat, stepped inside, clos
ing it firmly behind hes. She stood
peering around the room. There
was something familiar and yet un
familiar in her height, her carriage.
He waited, spellbound, for her
voice. .
“Douglas!” she exclaimed. “Ah,
there you are!”
The words seemed to die away,
unuttered, upon his lips. He sud
denly thought that he was choking.
He stared at her blankly. It was
impossibie! She came a step far
ther into the room. Her hand was
stretched out accusingly.
“So T've found you, have I, Doug
las?” she cried, and there was a
note of bitter triumph in her words,
“found you after all these months!
Aren’'t you terrified? Aren't you
afraid No wonder you sit there,
shrinking away! Do you know what
I have come for?”
He tried to speak, but his lips
were as powerless to frame words
as his limbs were to respond to his
desire for movement. This was the
one thing which he had not fore
seen.
“You broke your promise,” she
went on, raising her wvoice a little
in passiopate geproach. “You left
me there alone to face dismissal,
without & penny, and slipped off
vourself to America. You never
even came in to wish me good-by.
Why? Tell me why vou went with
out coming near me? * * * You
won’t, eh? You daren’t., Be a man.
Out with it. lam here, and I know
the truth.”
For the first time some definite
sound came from his lips.
“Reatrice!” he gasped.
The room was suddenly flooded
with light. Philip, rigid and ghast
lyv. was looking at her from the
other side of the table. She held
up her hands as though to shut out
the sight of him. .
“Philip!” she shrieked. “Philip!
omo, ey Qo
“Philip—alive!” she muttered.
“Alive! * * * Speak! Can’t you
speak to me? Are you a ghost?”
“Of course not,” he answered,
with a calm which surprised him.
“You can’t have forgotten in less
than six months what T look like.”
A new expression struggled into
her face. She abandoned her grasp
of the handle and came back to her
former position.
“Look here,” she faltered, “if
vou are Philip Romilly, where's he—
Douglas? * * * Where's Doug
las?” ' o
There was no answer. Philip
SRR e / -
52-54-56 ® ¢, Telephone 3
k.
Whitehall Number =
e
. -
Street Main 3132 E
m_—__———____——_—-——-'_—-—-————: -
NEWS FOR WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 11 &
WE
. *®
B
Final Mark-downon
=
* . e =
-~
- Remaming Winter
-
"
-
a
* Dresses =
.
-
Of Velvet, Duvetyn, Serge, . 3
‘. - -
Velour and Tricotine 3
WIII‘IN we tell yvou that the greater number E
of these dresses were originally priced =
around SIOO and above that figure, you can form 32
a good general idea of their quality. E
—Stvles are for street, afternoon and traveling &
A
weat, -
—The influx of spring dresses is such that we =
find it necessary to close out the last vestige of - &
our winter stocks. Hence these further steep 5
reductions. 5
16 Dresses ..............Down to $23.95 &
Last prices were $29.95, $33.95 and $39.95. Earlier o
they ranged in price from $49.50 to $69.50. E
17 Dresses ..............Down to $34.95 8
The last price on these dresses was $49.95. Earlier J
in the season they were $97.50 to $145. E
12 Dresses ..............Down to $44.95 &
Prior to this, thby were marked $59.95. Earlier in &
the season they were priced $125 to $137.50. -
, W
26 Dresses ..............Down to $54.95 §
Last price on these dresses was $69.95. Earlier in %
the season they were marked $157.50 to $225. g
’ GTHE CINEMA MURDER”
in motion pictures with
Miss Marion Davies as the
charming heroine, a Cosmopoli
tan production, is being showiy
at leading theaters in leading
cities. Screened under the direc
tion of George D. Baker. Pre
‘sented by Famous Players-Lasky
Corporation as a Paramount-
Artcraft picture.
simply looked at her. She began to
shake once more upon her feet.
“Where's Douglas?” she demand
ed fiercely. ‘Tell me? Tell me
quickly, before I go mad! If you
are Philip Romilly alive, if it wagi't
vour body they found, wherzis ’
Douglas?” A S
“You can guess what happened
to him,” Philip said slowly. ‘I
met him on the towing path by the
side of the canal. I spoke to him— -
about you. He answered me witha
jest. I think that all the passion
of those grinding yvears of misery
swept up at that moment from my
heart. I was strong—God, how
strong I was! I took him by “tKa
throat, Beatrice. 1 watched his
face change. I watched his damned, -
self-satisfied complacency fade
away. He lost all his smugness,
and his eves began to stare at me, -
and his lips grew whiter as they
struggled to utter the cries for
mercy which choked back. Then I
flung him in—that's all. Splash! |
* * % God, I can hear it now! 1..
saw his face just under the water. *
Then I went on.”
“You went on?” she repeated,
trembling in every Itmb,
“T picked up the pocketbook which
T had shaken out of his clothes in
that first struggle. Y studied its,
contents, and it gave me an idea. g
went to Liverpool, stayed at the
hotel where he had eagaged rooms,
dressed myself in his clothes, and
went on the steamer in his place. I
traveled to New York as Mr. Doug- |
las Romilly of the Douglas Romilly
Shoe Company, occupfed my room
at the Waldorf under that name.
Then T disappeared suddenlv—there .
were too many people waiting te
see me. I took the pseudonvm
which he had carefully prepared
for himself and hid for a time in a
small tenement houvse. Then T re
wrote the play. There you have .
mv story.”
“You—murdered him, Philip!h
& % 0 Youir
She stood quite stiMl for several
moments. Then she took out the
pins from her hat, banged it upon
the table. opened her tweed coat,
came round to the fireside, and
threw herself into an easy chaijr.
Her action was portentious and sig
nificant.
Tell me how vou found me out?”:
he asked, after a brief pause. :
“T was dismissed from Detton
Magna.” she told him. “T had to
o 0 and be waiting maid to Aunt
Tsther at Crovdon. T took the place 5
of her maid of all work. I'scrubbed
for my living. There wasn't any
thing else. T hadn’t clothes to trv
for the holder things, not a friend
in the world. but. T was only wait-.
ing. T meant, at the first chance,
to rob Aunt Tsther, to come to Lon
dqn, dress myself properly, and find
a post on the stage. if possible. T
wasn't particular. Then one day a .
man eama to see me—an American.
He'd traveled all the way from New ,
York because he was interested ing.
what he called the mysterious Ro
milly disapeparance. He knew
that T had heen Douglas’ friend. He
asked me to come out and identify
—you! He offered me my passage,
a hundred pounds, and to give me a
start in life here, if T needed it. So
1 came ont with him.”
(To Be Continued.)