Newspaper Page Text
& THE ATLANTA GEORGIAN'S MAGAZINE AND FICTION PAGE -
Revelations of a Wife
. By Adele Garrison.
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, our fellow board
er at the Cosgrove farmhouse in
the Catskills, intended to steal the
valoable eoilection of paintings in
the farmhouse parlor.
He looked at me for a long min
nte, his face blank with amaze
ment. Then he threw back his
head and laughed heartily in a way
that | dislike intensely.
“If it were in the summer time |
should say that the heat had af
fected your brain” he said, “but
it's been cool today, so I'm afraid
you're really going nutty. Odd T
d.i;dn‘t notice any symptoms of it
before. I think we'll have to have
medical adviee. * Where does it
hurt you worst, dearest”
I flushed painfully, for Dicky's
ridicule always hurts me cruelly,
and torning toward the dresser T
busied myself with putting into
the drawers the contents of the
soit caxe and traveling bag. Dicky’'s
clothing I laid to one side, prepara
tory to putting it in his own room.
1 'hoped that by thus ignoring
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.
“Took here, Madge,” he said
gravely, “be mighty careful you
don't say to any one else what
you have just told me. You know
how obstinate you are when you
get one of your theories. Going off
on a tangent like this, with a ridic
ulous accusation against a woman
about whom you know nothing, is
dangerous business.’”
“It is not a foolish accusation,’ 1
retarmed 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. I am not
anxious to make a fool of myself.”
“No? Is that so?" Dicky drawled
in moek 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 wyou will adopt?”
I torned my back upon him un
compromisingly and went on with
the arranging of my belongings.
A BET MADE.
Dieky laughed softly, then, com
ing up behind me, drew my head
back toward him and kissed me.
“Did her bad, matter of fact 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, for all
1 care, just so you don't tell any
body else about it"”
1 wanted to draw away from him,
te take refuge in cold silence, for T
feit 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, I rested passively in his
arms and =aid demurely:
“T surely shall not tell any one
eaise, 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
I this is a thriftless age. We
. are called a wasteful nation,
and bhave dinged into our ears the
Irite information that the French
or German or other FEuropean
housew:ife could live in luxury on
what we throw away. But I have
n‘other view of waste which seems
all too familiar among certain
groups of housewives, and that is
thve purchasing of articles, clothing
ar utensils which are in no sense
investments, but sheer waste. 1
ksow house after hou o where If
An inventory were tal 'n possibly
20 per cent of the household effects
wonid not be in use. There is, for
jastance, the habit of buying small
amounts of fabrics, laces, mate
rials, eto, with the idea that “some
aay | can use this for so-and-so.”
Bat the chances are that the time
ix put off and put off. and that
there grafualiy grows an accumu
mtion of what my good old Seotch
srandmother called “stechery.”
Boxes of remnants, strips of cloth,
bits of this and that, trimmings,
all laid away idle not being of use,
and practicaliy dead investment.
There is one {riend 1 have (and she
‘anghingly 2dmits her fault), who
has an immense chest full of
Little Bobbie’s Pa
ACH ene (1) of us skolars had to
rite a artikel sbout a Grate In
wventer, so 1 asked Pa wen 1 ealm
heommm about who I shud rite about
"Rite about Chris Columbo, sed Pa, the
*rr wich got the first good slant
ut erth, sed Pa
What cholce words yeu are singing
tomite, sed Ma. Do not use so much
siang W front of our child
Well, sed Pa, Chris 8. Celumbo was
a Ttalyun in Italy, sed Pa, wich first
foumd out that we didenmt live on n fiat
wurld, tut on & round one . He rote a
poem for the weekly paper in his hoam
town, sed Pa, in wich he sed:
Althe this worid of ours seems fat,
Rapeshully wen we are broke,
This werld is reund, & that's no joke,
Se paste tihis Troth Imside yure et :
He mnevver rote any such rubbish,
sed Ma
Take it from me, sed Pa, that is fest
what he rote. I red it in a old bobk
sumware wen | was a child erming my
first ten thousand a yeer. sed Pa.
Are you going to talk sense to Robbie
& belp him with his essay, sed Ma, or
most 1 help him?
T will help him, sed Pa. 1 have jest
THE ATLANTA GEORGIAN 88 A Clean Newspaper for Southern Homes 0oR.» WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 11, 1920.
will prove 1 am right in my sus
pleion.”
Dicky whirled me aronnd, 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 sball
1 give you?”
“None,” 1 responded promptly.
“We'll make it a dinner at Vapu
cett{’'s.”
“Done!” Dicky said, and then,
gtretching his arms up, he gave a
prodigious yawn. “I don’t believe
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 connecting door, and
dumped his clothing carelessly in a
heap on a chair, part of the things
sliding off on the floor.
“Oh, Dicky, Dicky!” I 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. “T'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.”
1 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 noise in his room makes him
rage. .
WHAT MADGE SAW.
So | 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
first 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 hot
eleep. Underneath my window I
heard the sound of volces, which,
after a while, died away into si
lence. It seemed hours that I lay
there in the stiliness. ¢
Then the long prolonged call of a
screech owl sounded in my ears. I
had heard many of them at the
tountry places where my mother
and | 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 before supper I had
noticed just showing through the
trees some yards away from the
farmhouse.
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 1 looked, the lamp was sud
denly turned low, the door opened,
and three stealthy figures crept out
and hurried in the direction from
which the bird-call had come.
(To Be Continued.)
ripped-up dresses, Dpieces and
enough materials to clothe an or
phanage. ‘There is lyving . 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
produets unused by any member
of the family. There is, for in
stance, the exercises enthusiastical
ly purchased by mother “to re
duce,” and used by her fully four
times in a burst of middle-aged
vanity; father used a vikrator
thrice, and then it was put on the
highest shelf of the tallest closet
and forgotten. The famous remedy
that sister bought to enhance the
various charms lies also forlorn,
while a new nostrum is the pres
ent favorite.
+ All “stechery” Now, vou may
say that in the evolution of
the family certain furnishings must
naturally be outgrown and oute
worn; even then they have lived
through usefuiness. But my point
is thut 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 because some one talked
vou 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, Ine.)
told him the naim of a grate invemtor,
old Chris Columbe. If he wants another
naim, sed Pa, 1 will invent one.
lhluo- you ecud, sed Ma, but stick te
truth.
Well, sed Pa, a other grate inventer
was Ole Goof, the inventor of the pin
tess vaseline, sed Pa. He dident knew
it; & being deespondent, he hanged his
seif with the wary rope that wuld have
made him rich & fumoous, sed Pa. Poor
man, every time I heer the nalm Goof I
feel like crying
1 doant blame yvou. sed Ma. Gees is a
sad naim, to be sure. But If you are
going to be foolish al! the eevning I
sha!l have to teil Bobbie about sum
grate invenshuns. Omne grate inventor,
sed Ma, was Walt Whitman, the in
ventor of the cottom gin, sad Ma.
Ha, Ha, sed Pa, that man's natm was
Whitney. Walt Whitman was a verse
manu-fack-terer. sed Pa. & he put every.
thing in exceop the cute little jingels. For
that reeson, sed Pa, he dident rite pap
ular hita. But he was a wise old gink,
sed Pa. The cotton gin, sed Pa, was a
grate invenshun, but I suppoas we wont
see it any moar, new that the country
l‘.'cnl dry. sed Pa.
e, sed Ma. vure futher isa & grate
iayentor, toe, inventing mear feelish
reemarks than any/man living, sed Ma.
Equal Suffrage
$ o :
. Mo NSy B 2
: a 5 8T e- | N
(L il {7 BV eRP UI W @
P Fo. %7y 2TR N REY C D P GRS ST ol e $
e FCL ST eN & B
T R AR 2 . AR
gl ARN gl TN
o cold L eOSR A el - TRV
; fk‘ :F W/A‘?a “ >1 i “\-\; gk \.” > Y "’.A\" : \\\ ~;"‘ ]%.“— ’M
,&’fififig =- ¥ ?-’\ 5' . \féf- PER \]
(B R : ' X 7 S- . A
wat D o A 0 ;r \ \E»“- % )v?"{c ol e
s » SO 03 O skl L% (e N\ !
g : /"“:7; - 135@@4}& PN L&/D| a 8 g v >
At s < (P Pod \ S R
GL E e el st NI -
7 B g o R W ePy T
iy () s 5 a 0 R O g RLS it/ Bpr
‘ B <XI . AR BN SN G |
' . Js¢7 eXA R ‘ - 5 S -
# "Af"} t ‘\‘3‘s4,‘ 7 Cp) b ,fiw\
2 N 2 S :}»"‘A - ‘ - R )b i F , ; 8\
I Ty S % sRe it 2 :
r~ B W ahnas) [y ) L G ¢( 4
18 /// 0/7%, ) **{ e ’!{{vr‘f;u-x;._ 3 ;‘-"-/:-,;:; L N X/
, 3 770 By eW,Lo O Do) (et =2 o§2 R A PR F/7NK
|SN A AN Y I Y LWL«
. 14 4 s ,:_\ oy &NGA Al * [ o -b4 ¥ ;
b o OV / ; fie§@c¢%¢?hnge;xuu;&:é‘t‘«%"éf*’,'!%?@\ WRO
ODx4/4 ANS J .\?flg‘%., > 9\\.‘s{&.- = "' . é‘{ e
\ . -l e 5bR ‘:‘ \s’ ‘*"d( P \;“.’7 X ,\"”;“-' ", %i)y:rs ,rV_-g“;: S g
R A e, eRN SN 1
\TS (DR, Sl 2R Cladt iy i 5
\ §/% LS : fi:f" : :/g-;»afi;fl& ""’"‘f ¥ / P
AL VA =T el TS S NAYR S gy, oy e/7
\ B SN\ R By (S Gy I oDN Ss A
J‘\)q \ CRh .a‘i: I i f('-¢ Pol »;c"&f—," = 29« 4
7 Ny, SN K. § fl;’a;— s ey 3 ,:I L N
SS 7 ABRE Vi PR oy, ol A BG A G, @TN
5 28N R ELER | ’efl‘.’f "’,l . 1%‘3:5&’{:;“” o~ ’/ B h £ |
”?fi‘.‘s* 2 / YO\ GPv 4 44"’.@' ,{(”;”'4\3s/‘/} N "7
v a 1 A,V ¥ 3 7 '.": R ¥ ;,;',/ 4 o y - 2
™ i, ‘\"\\ £/ ’.‘-’ua;,.,::-,?;:/'é TPb bSR
‘ A 7 * > ‘."; —/' f‘:-,.f"—“““‘ “& J ogby X "%M\
4V QR / TA g C T g N
A < P =W[y | .'{ W
/ 7/ } - = W I
7 / R . 1€ ;ol ! 5 ¢ 4‘! 4 “': ¥, A ‘e
= ’ ~ Koy ) 4
- I’ ¥s . / 25/ ° 1 LR I‘,';;6’.-‘:
i Bae 1< , h \" . R |
g. 4 A “y ¢ 3 f > D et o 4 ORI ot
s T WA~ 07 R" |
B I LGy K (A Xst
i,. .;y. '44'v - ’,‘r;‘. b - __,,‘..;:’Jl“-:\Q ’ — X e "-: - " .4{
b"p g [fi&‘ ! e “'f ‘t*\“) = & "_‘f‘,r:?’ 5 “‘&j"‘ >
N 7 4 ¥/ ; " '\\ e v
S/ \ =7
S &" ¢! Rt Y e =
Pl e s VAI RN of) AE
LR (= -~ s 8 i
:‘J R S A Ged 3 ~
'* ‘l\b ‘\._v“&_ ‘ \_\A e M“t_“}
Good Night Stories
- By Blanch Silver.
GRANDPA OPOSSUM'S TALE.
T was a great time for the three
opossum children — Weedy,
Seedy and Slimmy Opossum-—
when their mame and daddy went
away and left them over at Grand
the supper dishes, Weedy Opossum
house. lor just as soon as
Grandma Opossum would clear up
the supper dishes, Weedy Opossum
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 of
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, no, Grandpa!” cried the
three Opossum youngsters in one
voice. “Tell us a true story.”
“ me see—did I ever®tell—well T
guess 1 never did, so here goes’
and Grandpa Opossum puffed hard
on his pipe before he continued.
“One bright moonlight night
when your grandma and 1T 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
to & pawpaw party.”
Of course, Weedy wanted to
know what a pawpaw party was,
and Grandpa Opossum lsughed 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™ econ
tinned Grandpa Opossum. “We ate
and we danced until we couldn't
eat or dance any more. Then we
bade our friends goodnight, and
your grandma and ] started home.
On the way we had to pass a lovely
pouitry ' ard, and forgetting we had
filled up eon PAWDAWS, your
grandma and | decided we'd have a
chicken.
“We got the chioken: I gave it
to grandma, and she scooted
across the field. 1 went back for
another, when, dear me 1 found
myself caught in a trap, the farmer
standing over me. Well, 1 acted as
if I was dead. He took me out of
the trap and laid me at one side.
For quite some time 1 played dead,
then when he turmed around to
shut the chicken house more se
carely I jumped wp and glided
away.
"1 met Grandma Opossum down
Let Not Your Right Cheek
Know What Your Left Doeth
e
—
e
b .
s N A
}(‘k , 230 S
¢ r. Dl ¥
=% | )
ki B [
— :.5 ‘w O-J
-
3 ¥ *
B~ o
5 =
- .
“Tell Us a True Story.”.
Nlt s
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 needie fell
to the floor for the third time, and
grandpa knew what that meant.
It was time for them all to turn
into bed. So, kissing the three
voungsters good- night they all
trooped off to bed.
Rejecting a Compliment.
A well known member 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, incidéntally,
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 partner.”
Maternal Indignation.
He'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
not the kind of face that grew on
you,” was the reply of the fond
mother. “You'd be better looking
if it had."
Married Strangers
By Frances Duvall.
LXIV.—A CLEAR SKY.
66 'VE spent the afternoon with
I 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 chili of
the California twilight. His head
| was flung back against the cushions
E 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 strong 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 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. Lord,
] was a thoughtless chap before
- this war! I looked on dad as a sort
of fTire escape. If T got in a jam,
financial or otherwise. I knew dad
would be there to pull me out, and
1 was too selfish a cuss to be even
| grateful.”
| Bennett paused a moment, then
l continued slowly.
! “So one time—when he threw me
down-—I—I acted like a fool. I
forgot all he’'d done and told him
what I thought of a man who'd
‘ let his son go throur: hell. It wasn't
very pretty—what {old him. I guess
| dad's a thoroughbred to he able to
| overlogk it now. But I'm sorry, God,
{ how sorry I am!”
| He blew a breath of smoke to
| zards the ceiling, watching it
| rithe and curl in the twilight
gloom. Keitha remained silent, try
ing to piece together the hints of
wthe affair which had caused the
rupture in the Bennett householl.
She was too proud to ask for that
which would not be voluntarily
vouchsafed.
“But it's all right nrow,” said Ben
nett exhaling a deep breath. “We're
pals again, dad and 1. 1 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 Hawaii for a part of the
| year, and not return east at all?™
Keitha smiled into the twilight.
“Is that a significant question or
merely an idle pne?”
“What a rigid little conservative
vou 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
By NELL BRINKLEY
Copyright, 1919. International Feature Serviece, Ine.
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
\ Makes the fatigue of the = _
. day seem far away 2 ’
; Y b
; T\ AT
| ;= " N /
| o =
i L ™
B ‘ N
L o e
R )
?
|
Sold only in Sealed
& at your deajers
1
The Cinema Murder
By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
CHAPTER XIL
HILIP let the pen slip at last
P 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 been
fancy or * * * This time there
could be no mistake. Hg had not
heard the lift stop, but some one
was knocking softly at the door,
aqflly, but persistently. He turned
hlg 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 or furniture
at the further ené or 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 siowly
tarned. As he sat there he saw it
_puahed open. A woman, wrapped
in a long coat, stepped inside, clos
ing it firmly behind her. 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
impossible! She came a step far
ther into the room. Her hand was
stretched out accusingly.
“So 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 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 voice a little
in passionate reproach. “You left
me there alone to face dismissal,
without & pemmy, and slipped off
yourself to Amerfca. You never
even came in to wish me good-by.
Why? Tell me why you went with
out coming near me? * * * You
won’t, en? 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.
The room was suddenly 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!
s & ¢ Oh my God!”
“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 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 faltered, “if
vou are Philip Romilly, where's he—
Douglas? * * * Where's Doug
las?”
There was no answer. Philip
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 Igo mad! If you
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
Maxwell House Tea has the same excellent qualities
UHMEEK-NEAL COFFEE CO.. Nashville, Houston. Jacksanville, Richmand
' fe
STHE CINEMA MURDER™
in motion pictures with
Miss Marion Davies as the/
charming herocine, a Cosmopoli
tan production, is being shown
at leading theaters in leading’
cities. Screened under the dirge-.
tion of George D. Baker. Pre-.
sented by Famous Players-Lasky
Corporation as a Paramount- .
Artcraft picture. |
are Philip Romilly alive, if it wasn't
your body they found, where is:
Douglas?” v
“You can guess what happened =
to him,” Philip said slowly. "1
met him on the towing path by the
side of the canal. I spoke to him— ¢
about vou. He answered me witiva’ %
jest. I think that all the passion '
of those grinding years of misery
swept up at that moment fr& my"
heart. 1 was strong—Ged, how'
strong I was! I took him by the
throat, Beatrice. I watched ‘his
face change. I watched his damned, .
self-satisfied complacency fade
away. He lost all his smugness..
and his eyes began to stare at me, |
and his lips grew whiter as they..
struggled to utter the cries for
mercy which choked bark. Tml‘
flung him in—that's all. Sp Tw:
¢ ® * (od, I can hear it now! - I
saw his face just under the water.,
Then T went on.” i
“You went on?’ she repeated,
trembling in every limb. L
“T picked up the pockethook which
T had shaken out of his clothes in
that first struggle. I studied its
contents, and it gave me an idea. 1
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.” T
traveled to New York as Mr. Doug
las Romilly of the Douglas Romilly
Shoe Company, occupied my room
at the Waldorf under that Te.
Then I disappeared suddenly—there
Mwere too many people waiting to =
see me. 1 took the psendonym
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.”
“You—murdered him, Philip!
0 & YoUul
She stood quite stiM 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 chair.
Her action was portentious and sig
nificant.
Tell me how you found me ouf?”
he asked, after 'a brief pause.
“T was dismissed from Detton
Magna,” she told him. “I had to
go and be waiting maid to Aunt
Esther at Croydon. I took the place
of her maid of all work. I scrubbed
for my living. There wasn't any
thing else. I hadn’t clothes to try
for the bolder things, not a friend'
in the world, but I was only wait
ing. I meant, at the first chanece,
to rob Aunt Esther, to come to Lion
don, dress myself properly, and find
a post on the stage, if possible. T
wasn’t particular. Then one day a
man came 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 T had been 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 I needed it. So
I came out with him.”
(To Be Continued.) Y
interfere with your future in amy
way, but—"
‘“Forget the usual objection,
Keitha, “he cut in impatiently. “Be
a sport for once in your life.”
ight. 1920, Wheele
o L(To Be Contirnm?)l““' -