Newspaper Page Text
2 THE ATLANTA GEORGIAN'S MAGAZINE AND FICTION PAGE .2
Revelations of a Wife
. By Adele Garrison.
i .l
‘WHAT HAPPENED DURING THE
MEMORABLE FIRST NIGHT AT
THE COSGROVE FARMHOUSE.
ICKY'S face was a study when
I told him that I believed
Mrs. Allis, onr fellow board
er at the Cosgrove farmhouse in
tho Catskills, intended tn steal the
'qlutble 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
head and laughed heartily in a way
that I dislike intensely.
“If it were in the summer time I
should say that the heat had af
fected your brain,” he said, “but
it's been cool today, so I'm afraid
yvou're really going nutty. odd I
didn’t notice any symptoms of it
before. I think we'll have to have
;::?cu advice. Where does .it
you worst, dearest?”
1 flushed painfully, for Dicky's
ridicule always hurts me cruelly,
and turning toward the dresser I
busied myself with putting into
the drawers the contents of the
silit case and traveling bag. Dicky's
clgthing I laid. to one side; prepara
-Ipfy: tb putting it in his own room.
!‘h_opé_d ‘that by thus ignoring
Dicky's raillery and by affecting
vtg‘_bé' busy he might forget my un
'luc»ky,s;)eech concerning Mrs., Allis.
»But my hope. was fruitless. Dicky
sboke again, and thie time the joc
ularmbte had gone from his voice.
“Look here, Madge,” he said
grayely, ‘beé mighty ecareful you
don’t. say to- any one else what
you have just-told me. You know
how obstinate vou are when you
get one. of your theories. Going off
on.a tangent like this, with a ridic
nfi&é; accusation agalnst a woman
alifut’ whom you know nothing, is
dangerous business.”
“It is not a foolish accusation,” 1
returned coldly, “but a true one, as
I shall prove to you before our
week is out. But you need not be
afraid that T shall hint my suspi
cions to any one else. T am not
anxious to make a fool of myself.”
““No? Is that so?” Dicky drawled
in mock astonishment that made
my fingers itch to slap him. “Just
going to be a little Sherlock Holmes
all by herself, isn’t she? Well!
well! well! What disguise do you
think you will adopt?”
I turned my back upon him un
cgmpromisingly and went on with
the arranging of my belongings.
A BET MADE.
Dicky laughed softly, then, com
ing up behind me, drew my head
back toward him and kissed me.
“Did her bad, matter of fict hus
band spoil all her romantic 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 Charlie
Ross is lurking around here. fog all
T care, just so vou don’t tell any
body else about it.”
I wanfed 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 gpark of his anger.
Therefore, 1 rested passively in his
arms and said demurely:
“T surely shall not tell any one
else, but I'd like to make a wager
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
: this is a thriftless age. We
v are called a wasteful nation,
and have dinged into our ears the
trite information that the French
or German or other European
Lousew.fe could live in luxury on
what we throw away. But I have
another view of waste which seems
all too familiar among certaln
group’s of housewives, and that is
the purchasing of articles, clothing
or utensils which are in no sense
investments, but sheer waste. I
k)ow house after house where if
an inventory were taken possibly
20 per cent of the household effects
would not be in use. There is, for
instance, tWe habit of buying small
amounts of fabrics, laces, mate
rials, ete., with the idea that “some
aay 1 can use this for so-and-so.”
But the chances are that the time
is put off and put off. and that
there gradually grows an accumu
lation of what my good old Scotch
arandmecther called “stechery.”
Boxes of remnants, strips of cloth,
bits of this and that, trimmings,
ali laid away idle not being of use,
and practicaliy dead investment,
There is one friend I have (and she
laughingly admits her fault), who
has an immense chest full of
Little Bobbie’s Pa/
:
By William F. Kirk.
F ACH one (1) of us skolars nad to
[, rite a artikel about a Grate In
ventor, so 1 asked Pa wen I caim
hoam about who T shud rite ahont.
Rite about Chris Columbo, sed Pa, the
old geezer wich got the first good =lant
at the erth, sed Pa.
What choice words you are singing
tonite, sed Ma. Do not use so much
slang In front of our child,
Well, sed Pa, Chris 8. Columbho was
a Ttalyun in Italy, sed Pa, wich first
fotind out that we dident live on a flat
wurld, but en a round, dne. He rote a
poem for the weekly paper im his hoam
town, sed Pa, in wich he sed:
Altho this world of ours seems flat,
Wepeshully wen we are broke,
This world is round, & that's ne foke,
8o paste this Truth inside yure hat:
He nevver rote any such rubbish,
sed Ma. .
Toke it frem me, sed Pa, that is jest
what he rots T red it in a old hook
sumware wen [ was a child erning my
rir‘.; ten thousand a veer, sed Pa.
re you going to talk sense to Rohbis
& heln him with his essay, spd Ma, or
must T help him?
1 will help him, sed Pa. I have jest
FHE ATLANTA GEORGIAN ew- A Clean Newspaper for Southern Homes - WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 11, 1920.
- will ‘'prove I am right in my sus
picion.”
Dicky whirled 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'll just
take you on that. What odds shall
1 give you?” (
“None,” I responded promptly.
“We'll make it a dinner at Vanu
cetti's.”
“Done!” Dicky said, and then,
gtretching his arms up, he gave a
prodigious yawn. “I don’t helieve
I was ever so tired in my life,” he
said. ‘T'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 connecting door, and
dumped his clothing carelessly in a
heap on a chair, part of the things
sliding off on the floor.’ g
“Oh, Dicky, Dicky!” T remon
strated, hurrying after him. “Wait,
I'll put these away for you.”
“You’ll put nothing away,” Dicky
returned, snatching 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 night.”
I knew better than to irritate
him by persisting in arranging his
clothing. - When Dicky is sleepy, he
is like a spoiled child, and any light
or noige in his room makes him
rage. :
WHAT MADGE SAW.
So T 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 I
firet awoke in the morning.
In a few moments sounds from
Dicky’s room told me that he was
asleep and snoring, as 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 I lay
there in the stillness.
Then the long prolonged call of a
screech owl sounded in my ears. I
had heard many of them at the
country places where my mother
and I had spent our vacations.
There was something about this
one, 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 beforé supper 1 had
noticed just showing through the
trees some- yards away from the
farmholse. -~ - ; ?
In the darkness I could see no
movement in,that direction, but a
light in a small bungalow very near
my 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 before it.
As T looked, the lamp was sud
denly turned low, the door opened,
and three stealthy figures erept out
and hurried in the direction from
which the bird-call had come.
(To Be Continued.)
- ripped-up dresses, pieces and
enough materials to cloethe an or
phanage. There is lying dollar
after dollar’s worth of unused ma
terials. ! %
Again, most household clos®ts
‘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
ly purchased by mother ‘to re
duee,” ‘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 the tallest clcset
and forgotten. The famous remedy
that sister bought to enhance the
varioug charms lies also forlorn,
while a new nostrum is the pres
ert favorite.
All “stechery.” Now, you may
say that in the evolution of
the family certain furnishings must
naturally -be outgrown and out
worn; even then they ‘have lived
through usafulness. -But my point
is that too many of the contents
of these boxes and closets were
unwisely chosen in the first place,
were bought for a caprice, for a
bargain, or becatise some one talked
you into it, not on a real basis 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 Syndicate, Inec.)
told him the naim of a grate ilnventor,
old Chris Columbo. If he wants another
naim, sed Pa, T will invent one,
T guess you cud, sed Ma, but stick to
truth. :
i Well, sed Pa, a other grate inventor
‘was Ole Goof, the inventor of the pin
less vaseline, sed Pa. He dident know
it; & being deespondent, he hanged his
self with the vary rbpe that wuld have
made him rich & famous, sed Pa. Poor
man, every time I heer the naim Goof I
feel like crying.
1 deant blame you, sed Ma, Goof s a
sad naim, to he sure. But {f you are
going to be foolish all the eevning 1
«hall have to tell Bobhbie about sum
grate invenshuns. One grate inventor,
sed Ma, was Walt Whitman, the in
ventor of the cotton gin, sed Ma.
Ha, Ha, sed Pa, that man's patm was
Whitney Walt Whitman was a verse
manu-fack-terer. sed Pa, & he put averv
thing in exeep the cute little fingels. For
thut resson, sed Pa. he dident rite nan
ular hite. But he was a wise ald gink,
sad Pa. The cotton gin, sed Pa, was a
grate invenshun, but 1 supnoas we wont
#see it any moar, now that the country
has went dry. sed Pa.
Pohie, ged Ma. ynre father is a ghate
inventar. tm6, inventing moar foolieh
reemarks than any man living, sed Ma.
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l (Good Night Stories
By Blanch Silver.
GRANDPA OPOSSUM'S TALE.
T was a great time for the three
l opossum children — Weedy,
Seedy and Slimmy Opossum-—
when their mame and daddy went
away and left them over at Grand
the supper dishes, Weedy Ogossum
house. TFor just 4s soon as
Grandma Opossum would clear up
the supper dishes, \WeedyOpossum
would run for Grandpa Opos
sum's slippers, Seedy Opossum
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, then 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 fellow,”
laughed Grandpa Opossum clearing
his throat., “Shall it be a fairly
tale or—"
“Oh, mno, Grandpa!” cried the
three Opossum youngsters in one
voice. “Tell us a true story.”
“ me see—did 1 ever tell——well 1
guess I never did, so here goes”
ard Grandpa Opossum puffed hard
on his pipe before he continued.
“One bright moonlight night
when yaur grandma and I were
young and foolish,” here Grandma
Opossum blushed and got s 0 nerv
ous she nearly dropped a stitch in
her knitting. ‘“She and I went out
to a pawpaw party.”
Of course, Weedy wanted to,
know what a pawpaw party was,
and Grandpa Opossum laughed and
#oold 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
vour grandma and 1 started home.
On the way we had to pass a lovely
poultry vard, and forgetting we had
filled up on pawpaws, your
grandma and [ decided we'd have a
chicken.
“We got the chicken; I gave It
to grandma, and she scooted
across the field. I went back for
another, when, dear me, 1 found
mygelf caught in a trap, the f:\‘irm‘r
standing over me. Well, | act as
if 1 was dead. He took me olit of
the trap and laid me at one side
For quite some time I played dead,
then when he turned around to
shut the chicken house more sc-
Let Not Your Right Cheek
Know What Your Left Doeth
P L ! D&Zq 2
Pt Q‘"’
g "/;
= g
o N
( od Farßes
) \ -
Sg\f"‘ Z\ Vo elB A
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_a'_ §7 YA :
&r £ ” U
8 ifi?’ h l-J
¥ N L
) ] hated
%‘ , l
: :’;:3 Q___.—.,/ /; .
oy
wr o
“Tell Us a True Story.”
curely 1 jumped up and glided
| away. N,
’ *“l met Grandma Opossum down
by the river, She was crying
bitterly, for 1 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, tiruj 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
t 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.
It was time for them all to turn
into bed. 80, kissing the three
youngsters good night they all
, trooped “off to bed.
Rejecting a Compliment.
A well known member of the
Stock Exu\hange. 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:
“Look here, you are the biggest
thief on the Stock Exchange.”
“Ah,” was the answer, “it is evident
you do not know my partuner.”
il il it ino et et e
|
Cuticura Tal
l s Fugcinatingly Foagrant s
| ,
Always Healthful
| §8 of Caticura Laberatories, Dept.X. Malden,
| I e e, g
Married Strangers
By Frances Duvall
- LXIV.—A CLEAR:'?Y,
¢6] VE spent the afternoon witn
I dad. He’'s been bully, too.”
Bennett was lounging he
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 chalr and ue
blew a ring of smekeé 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 nnaz clean
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 80 good looking, thought Keitha.
“Were you getting acquainted
again” asked Keitha, 3
“Getting acquainted for the first
ime, rather,” he answered. “I never
understoeod dad before; nor he me.
But it was my fault, I guess. Lorl,
1 was a thoughtless ehap before
this war! 1 looked on dad as a sort
of fire cseape. If | got in a jam,
financial or otherwise, I knew dad
would be there to pull me out, and
1 was teo selfish a <cuss to be even
grateful.”
Bennett paused a moment, then
continued slowly, ¢
“So one time-—~when he threw mne
downs-I—ll acted like a fool. I
forgot all he’d done and told him
what T thought of a man who'd
let his son g@ through hell, It wasn't
very pretty—what told him. I guess
dad’'s a thoroughbred to be able to
overlook it now. But I'm sorry, God,
how sorry 1 am!”
He blew a breath of bmoke to
wards the ceiling, swatching it
writhe and curl in the twilight
gloom, Keitha remained silent, try
ing to piece together the hints of
the affair which had caused the
rupture in the Bennett househol?
She was too proud to ask for that
/////H‘ . %m&n
P 73PEACHTREE STREET ="
By NELL BRINKLEY
Copyright, 1919, Internn.tlonal Feature Service, Inc.
- 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. 1 even be
lieve I'm geoing to make him proad
of me. Keitha,” he turned his face
toward her suddenly, “would you
be willing to remain here, or per
haps go to Hawali for a part of the
year, and not return east at all?”
}(eitha 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 au
answer, do you? Well, I'll teil you:
the question is very significant. Dad
is getting on—he's beginning to feel
his years pccasionally and he is so
impresged 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 HHawaii?" asked
Keitha with puckered brows.
“Large quantities of dad's inter
ests are located in sugar aut 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 @ny
way, but——"
“Forget the usual objection,
Keitha, “he eut in impatiently, “Be
a sport for once in your life”
(Copyright, 1920, Wheeler Syndicate, Ine.)
(To Be Continued.)
' Maternal Indignation.
Fle's not what you would call
strictly handsome,” said the ma
jor, beaming through his glasses
on a baby as it lay howling in its
mother's arms, “but it's the kind
of face that grows on you' “It's
ot the kizd 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 Xlli. .
HILIP det tho~pen slip at last
“from his tired tingers. The
light had failed. He had
been writing with straining eyes,
almost in the darkness. But there
was something elsa. ¥ad it been
fancy or ¢ * * .Thig time therql
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 faa written for
hours, and he was conscioyg that
his limbs were stiff. The sun had
gohe down in a cloudy sky, and the
light had faded. He could scarcely
distinguish the articles of furniture
at the further end of 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 her. She stood
peering around the room. There
wag 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
imposgibie! She came a step far
ther into the room. Her hand was
stretched out accusingly.
“SBo I'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 fried to speak, but his lips
were as powerless to frame words
as hig 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, raigsing her voice a little
in passionate reproach. “You left
me there alone to face dismissal,
without @ penny, and slipped off
vourself to America, You never
even eame in to wish me good-hy.
Why? Tell me why you 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.
“Beatrice!” he gasped. : 4
The room was suddeniy flooded
with light. Philip, rigid and ghast
ly. 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!
¢ .0 " Oh, my . Gol!" .
“Philip—alive!” she muttered.
“Alive! * ¢ ¢ Rpeak! 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 I 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 faltéred, “if
vou are Philip Romilly, where's he—
Douglas? * * * Where's Doug”
las ?* ;
There was no answer, Philip
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] N,
TAVAAAARAARRARAAARAAA FH‘»,QRW ARARARARARRAARARARARAARARRAAN;-
; A
GTHE CINEMA MURDER”
in motion pictures with
Miss Marion . Davies as the
charming heroine, a Cosmopoli
tan production, is being shown
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. ‘Teli me? Tell me
quickly, before I go mad! If you
are Philip Romilly atve, if it wasn't
your body they found, where i
Douglas?”
“You can guess what happened
to him,” Philip said slowly. ‘l’
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 years of misery
swept up at that moment: from my
heart. T -was, strong—=God, how
strong T was! (I took hin¥:-by the
throat, RBeatrice. I watched his
face change. I watched his damned,
self<satisfied complaeeney 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.
merey which choked back. Then I
flung him in—that's all. Splash!
# #* % (God, T can hear it now! I
saw Ris face just under the water,
Then 1 went on.”
“You went on?” she repeated,
_trembling in every Umb.
“I picked up the pocketbook which
I had shaken out of his clothes in
that first struggle. I studied its
contents, and it gave me an idea. I
went to Liverpool, stayed at the
hotel where he had engaged rooms.
dressed myself in his ciothes, 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 suddenly—there
were too many people waiting te
see me. I took ‘the pseudonym
which he had carefully. prepared
for himself and hid for a time in a
small tenement house. Then I re
wrote the play. There you have
my story.” rg - :
“You—murde _him, - Philip!
- . - YOU!" y
She stood quite stilt for several
moments. Then she took out the
pins frem her hat; banged it upon
the table, opened her tweed coat,
came round to the fireside, and
threw herself into an easy chair.
Her action was portentious and sig
nificant. > 8L
Tell me how you found me out?”
he asked, after a brief pause.
“] was dismissed from Detton.
Magna.” she told him. “I-had te
#o and be waiting maid to Aunt:
Esghen.at Croydon.. 1 took the place
of ier maid of alt'work. I serubbed
for my living. Therfe wasn't any
thing elee. T hadn’t clothes to try
for the bolder things, not a friend
in the world, but T was only wait
ing. T meant, at the first chance,
to rob Aunt Isther, to come to Lon
don, dress myself properly, and find.
a post on the stage if possible. L.
wasn't particular. Then one day a
man cama to see me—an American.
He'd traveled all the way from New
York because he was interested in
what he called the mysterious Ro
milly disapeparance. . He knew,
that I had been Douglas’ friend. He
asked me to come out and identify
—vou! He offered me my passage,
a hundréd pounds, and €o give mea
atart in life here, if T needed it. So
I came out with hin_}." §
(To Be Continued.)