Newspaper Page Text
MONDAY. APRIL 13.
The Case of Jenny Brice
■ By MARY ROBERTS RINEHART
t'RULOGUE.
*- Was Jennie Brice murdered?
• If the were murdered, who wii>
guilty of the foul deed?
If the were not done awn ;
with by an assassin, what becarm
of her?
Whence did she disappear?
These and a few other infer
esting questions are raised o
once in this very clever tale of
mystery written by a womcr
who is not only an adept r<
writing fiction of this charac
ter, but the possessor of a styl>
that chains the interest by it :
clearness and directness anc
wins by its rich humor.
Continued From Yesterday
"If her husband says to me tlint In
trants It buck, well and good." she an Id
“but 1 don't give It up to nobody but
him. Some folks I know of would hi
glad enough to have It "
I was certain It was Jennie Brice's
coat, but the maker's no me had been
ripped out. With Molly holding one
arm and 1 the other we took It to Mr
Ladley's door and knocked He o|tonei!
It, grumbling.
“I have asked you not to interrup;
me.” he said, with his pen In his band
His eyes fell on the coat. “What’s
that?” he asked, changing color.
“I think It's Mrs. Ladle.v's fnr coat.'
I said.
He stood there looking at It and
thinking. Then: “It can't be hers.” lie
said. "She wore hers when she went
away.”
"Perhaps she dropped It In tin
water.”
He looked at me aud smiled. "Anri
why would she do that?” he asked
mockingly. "Was It out of fashion?"
"That's Mrs. Ladley's coat,” I per
alsted, but Molly Maguire jerked ii
from me and started away. He stood
there looking at me and smiling in hi*
nasty way.
“This excitement is telling on you
Mrs. Pitman." he said coolly. "You're
too emotional for detective work."
Then he went In and shut the door.
When 1 went downstairs Molly Ma
gulre was waiting in the kitchen and
bad the audacity to ask me if 1
thought the coat needed a new lining'
It was on Monday evening that the
strangest event In years hnpiiencd to
me. 1 wont to my sister's house! And
the fact that I was admitted at a side
entrance made it even stranger. It
happened this way:
Supper was uver. and I was cleaning
up, when an automobile came to tilt
door. It was Alma's ear. The chain'
feur gave me a note:
Dear Mrs. Pitman—l am not at all wen
and very anxious. Will you como :o se
me at once? My mother is out to ainnei
and lam alone The car will bring yoi
Cordially. LIDA HARVEI
I put on uiy best dress at once and
got into the limousine. Half tin
neighborhood was out watching. )
leaned back in the upholstered seat
fairly quivering with excitement This
was Alma's car; that was Alma’s card
case; the little clock had her mono
gram on It Even the flowers In the
flower holder, yellow tulips, reminded
me of Alma, a trifle showy, but good to
look nt And 1 was going to her house
I was not taken to the main eu
trance, but to a side door. The queer
dreamlike feeling was still there. In
this back hull, relegated from the more
conspicuous part of the house, there
were even pieces of furniture from the
old home, and ray father's picture In an
oval gilt frame hung over my head. I
bad not seen n picture of him for twen
ty years. 1 went over and touched II
gently.
“Father, father!" I said
Under It was the tali hall chair that I
had climbed over as a child and hud
stood on many times to see myself in
the mirror above. -'The chair was newly
finished and looked the better for Its
age. I glanced in the old glass. The
chair had atood time better than I. 1
waa a middle aged woman, lined with
poverty and care, shabby, prematurely
gray, a little bard. 1 had thought my
father an old man when that picture
waa taken, and now I was even older
"Father!” I whispered again Rnd fell
to crying in the dlrnly lighted hull.
Lida sent for me at once. 1 had only
time to dry my eyes and straighten my
bat. Had 1 met Alum on the stairs I
would bare passed her without a word,
6he would not have known me. But 1
saw no one.
Lida was In bed. She was lying
there with a rose shaded lamp bealde
her and a great bowl of spring flowers
on a little stand at her elbow. She
■at up when i went In and had a mill-,
place a chair for me beside the bed.
She looked very childish with her ball
In a braid on the pillow, and her slim
young arms and throat bare.
"I'm ao glad you camel” *be said
and would not be suUsfied until the
light was just right for my eye 3 and
my coat unfastened aud thrown open
"I'm uot really ill." she Informed me
"I'm—l'm just tired and nervous, and
—and unhappy. Mrs. Pltronn."
"I am sorry," 1 said, 1 wanted to
lean over and pat her bund, to draw
the covert around her and mother her
a little—l bud had no one to mother
for so long—but 1 could not. Bhr
would hare thought It queer aud pre
sumptuous-or uo, not that, bhe wu»
too sWevl to nun- ii.ui.itiu -nil.
“Mrs. I*lt mu ii.” she said suddenl.v
"who was this Jennie Brice?"
"She was an uetress. She ami her
husband lived at my house."
"Was she—was she beautiful’"
"Well,” I said slowly. "I never
thought of that She was handsome,
in a large way.”
“Was she young?"
"Yes. Twenty-eight or so.”
"That isn't very young." ahp said
looking relieved. "But I don't think
men like very young women. l>o von?'
“I know one who does.” I said, smll
lng. But she sat up In lied suddenl.v
and looked nt me with her clear, child
Ish eyes
“I don't want him to like me.” she
flashed. "I—l want him to hate nu*.'
“Tut. tut!. You want nothing of th>
sort.”
"Mrs. Pitman.” she said. "1 sent f«>
you because I'm nearly crazy. .Mi
Howell was a friend of that woman
He has acted like a maniac since sb*
disappeared. He doesn’t come to sei
me. he has given up his work on tin
pnper, ami I saw him today on tin
street—he looks like a ghost”
That put me to thinking.
"He might have been a friend." 1
admitted, "although as far ns 1 know
be wss never nt the house hut mu e
and then lie saw both of them."
“When was that?”
“Sunday morning, the day before she
disappeared They were arguing some
thing.”
CHAPTER VIII.
SHF looked at me attentively
"You know more than you
are telliug me, Mrs. Pitman.’
she said. “Y'ou—do you think
Jennie Brice Is dead and that Mr
Howell knows—who did it?”
“I think she is dead, and I think pos
slbly Mr. Howell suspects who did It
He does not know, or he would havi
told the police.”
“You do not think he was—was Id
love with Jennie Brice, do you?"
“I’m certain of that.” 1 said. "He Is
very much In love with a foolish girl,
who ought to have more faith in him
than she has."
She colored a little and smiled at thnt.
but the next moment she was sitting
forward, tense and questioning again.
"If that is true, Mrs. Pitman,” she
said, "who was the veiled woman he
met that Monday morning at daylight
and took across the bridge to Pitta
burgh? I believe it was Jennie Brice
If it was not. who was it?"
“I don't believe he took any womni
across the bridge at that hour. Wl.i
says he did 7“
“Cncle Jim saw him. He had beet
playing curds nil night nt one of tha
clubs and was walking home. He say
he met Mr Howell, face to face and
spoke to him. The woman was tall and
veiled. Uncle Jim sent for him a do?
or two later, and he refused to ex
plain. Then they forbade him tlv
house. Mamma objected to him any
how. and lie only came on sufferance
He Is a college rnnu of good family, bu:
without any money at all save what In
earns. And now”—
X bnd had some young newspapc
men with me. and 1 knew what the
got They were nice boys, but, the.'
made sls a week. I’m afraid I smilee
a little as I looked around the room
with its gray grass cloth walls, its toi
let table spread with ivory and gold
and the maid in attendance in her
black dress and white apron, collat
and cuffs. Even the little nightgown
Lida was wearing would have taken r
week's salary or more. She saw uij
smile. ,
"It was to be his chance," she said
“If he made good lie was to have some
thing better. My Uncle .Ilui owns the
paper, and lie promised me to help
him. But"
So Jim was pinning a newspaper'
That was a curious career for Jim to
choose—Jim. who was twice expelled
from school and who could never write
a letter without a dictionary beside
him! 1 had n pang when I heard Ills
name again after all the years, for 1
had written to Jim from Oklahoma
after Mr. Pitman died asking for mon
ey to bury him and had never even had
a reply
“And you haven't seen him since?"
“Once. I-dldn't hear from him, and
I called him tip. We—we met In the
park. He said everything was all right,
but be couldn't tell me Just then. The
next day he resigned from the paper
and went away. Mrs. Pitman. It's
driving me ernxy. for they have found
a body, and they think It la hera. If It
Is and he was with her”—
"Don’t be a foolish girl," I protested.
"If he was with Jennie Brice abe Is
still living, and If he was not with
Jennie Brice’’—
“If it was not Jennie Brice then 1
have a right to know who It was." she
declared. "He was not like hlmaelf
when I met him. He said such queer
things—be talked about an onyx clock
and said be bad been made a fool of
and that iio inattor what came out J
was always to remember that he had
done wbnt he did for the best and ttiu■
—that he cared for mo more than fu
anything In this world or the next "
"Tbut wasn't so foolish!" 1 eouldu l
help It 1 leaned over and drew lie.
nightgown up over her hare whip
ahoulder. "You won't help anything oi
anybody by taking cold, m,v dear," I
•aid. "Call your maid and have bet
put • dressing gown around you.”
I left soon after. There waa little l
could do. But l comforted her ns best
J could and said good night My Ueurt
was heavy us I went dowustulrs. For
twist things as I might, it was clear
that in some way the llowell boy was
mixed up 111 the Itrlce ease. I’oor lit
tle troubled Lida! Poor distracted boy!
I had a curious experience down
stairs. I had reached the foot of the
•tnlrcnse and was turning to go back
and nlong the hull to the side en
trance when I came face to face with
Isaac, the old colored man vvho had
driven the family carriage when I was
a child and whom I hud seen at in
tervals since I came back pottering
around Alum’s house The old man
was bent and feeble He came slowly
down the hall with a bunch of keys In
bis hand, i had seen him do tbe same
thing many times.
He stopped when he saw me, and 1
shrank back from the light, but be had
seen me. "Miss Bess!" he said. "Foh
Gawd’s sake, Miss Bess!”
"You are making a mistake, my
friend," I said, quivering; ‘T am not
‘Miss Bess!'"
He came close to me and stared into
my face. And from that he looked nt
my cloth gloves, at my coat, and be
shook his white head. "I sure thought
you was Miss Bess,” he said and made
no further effort to detain me. He led
the way back to the door, where the
mncblno waited, his head shaking with
the palsy of uge, muttering as he went.
He opened the door wtth his best man
ner and stood aside.
“Good night, ma’am." he quavered.
I had tears In my eyea. I tried to
keep them back. “Good night.” 1 said.
"Good night. Ikkie."
It had slipped out, my baby name
for old Isaac!
"Miss Bess!” he cried. "Oh. praise
Gawd, it's Miss Bess again!”
He caught my arm and pulled me
'back into the hall, and there he held
me, crying over me. muttering praises
for my return, begging me to come
back, recalling little tender things out
of tbe past tbut almost killed me to
hear again.
But I bad made my bed and must
lie in it I forced him to swear silence
about m.v visit; I made him promise
not to reveal my identity to Lida; and
I told him—heaven forgive me—that I
was well and prosperous and happy.
Pear old ls:wte! I would not let him
come to see me. but the next day there
came a basket with six bottles of
wine and an old daguerreotype of my
mother that hud been his treasure.
Nor was that bnsket the last.
The coroner held an inquest over
the headless body the next day, Tues
day. Mr. Graves telephoned me in the
morning aud I went to tbe morgue
with him.
I do not like the morgue, although
some of my neighbors pay it weekly
visits. It is by way of excursion, like
nickelodeons or watching the circus
put up its tents. 1 have heard them
threaten the children that if they mis
behaved they would not be taken to
the morgue that week!
I failed to identify the body. How
could 1? It bad been a tall woman,
probably five feet eight, and I thought
the nails looked like those of Jennie
Brice. Tbe thumb nail of one was
broken short off. I told Mr. Graves
about ber speaking of a broken nail,
but he shrugged Ids shoulders and said
nothing.
There was a curious scar over the
heart and he was making a sketch of
It. It reached from the center of the
chest for about six inches across the
left breast, a narrow thin line that one
could hardly see. it was shaped like
this:
—l—.
I felt sure that Jennie Brice had had
no such gear, nod Mr. Graves thought
as 1 did. Temple Hope, called to the
Inquest said she had never heard of
one. and Mr. Ladley himself, at the In
quest, swore that his wife bad had
nothing of the sort 1 was watching
him. and I did not think he was lying.
And yet the hand was very like Jen
nie Brice’s. It was ull bewildering.
Mr. Ladley’s testimony at tbe In
quest was dlsnpiKiintlDg. He was cool
and collected; said he bad no reason to
believe thnt his wife was dead and less
reason to think she had beeu drowned;
she had left him in a rage, and if she
found out that by hiding she was put
ting him In an unpleasant position she
would probably hide Indefinitely.
To the disappointment of everybody,
tbe identity of the woman remained a
mystery. No one witli such a scar was
missing. A small woman of my own
age. a Mrs. Murray, whose daughter, n
stenographer, had disappeared, attend
ed the inquest. But her daughter had
bad no sucb scar and bad worn ber
nails short because of using the type
writer. Alice Murray waa the missing
girl’s name Her mother sat beside me
and cried most of tbe time.
One thing was brought out at the In
quest- the body had beeu thrown Into
tbe river after death. There was no
water in the lungs. Tbe verdict was
"death by the hands of some person
or persons unknown.”
Sir. Holcombe was not satisfied In
some way or other he had got permlx
sion to attcud the autopsy and bad
brought away u tracing of the scar.
All the way home in the street car he
stared at the drawing. holding first ono
eye shut and then The other. But, like
the coroner, lie got nowhere. He fold
ed the paper and put It in bis note
book.
To Be Continued Tomorrow
THE AUGUSTA HERALD, AUGUSTA. GA.
DOES HE DESERVE CREDIT?
a/ mx „ w
We arc the result of rnvironmo nt, good or bad fortune and oppor
tunity. And we are grown men, th e fruit of our childhood. Study care-
“I Am Part of All That I Have Met”
-Tennyson
The Man Whom You PRAISE, the Criminal Whom the
State IMPRISONS—Are Made Up of That Which THEY
Have Met.
Copyrighted, 1914, by filar Company.
A picture is better known than a
sermon.
That is why the moving picture
shows are crowded FOR PAY, while
many churches that make NO
CHARGE are half empty. The church
has a better story to tell—hut gannot
tell it as vividly as that moving pic
ture film.
There Is a picture at the top of
this page. Look at it.
One-half of the picture shows toe
man whom you admire, the good citi
zen. the good father. He lives happy
and respected. And when they bury
him, they chisel complimentary things
on his marble headstone.
The other half of the picture shows
the poor creature who ends In jail
and lies at last in the Potter’s field.
Take each of these men by him
self. One is admirable and you praise
him.
The other is a criminal and you
despise him.
But look at the little picture above
each of them—and you Hee the truth
of Tennyson's saying at the top of
this editorial, “I am part of all tha*
I have rnet.”
Each of these men Is made up of
those tilings WHICH HE HAS MET.
The successful man represents
NOT HIS OWN VIRTUES OR SU
PERIORITY, but the Inheritance from
his father and mother, the kindness,
opportunity, warm bed and good
teaching.
He GROWS straight because he is
BROUGHT UP straight,
And the little picture above the
unfortunate man show* thai he IS
what he Is INEVITABLY. He could
not be anything else.
Brutalities, vice, NO OPPORTUN
ITY, those have made him what
he is.
"But for the grace of God there lies
John Wesley,” said the great, preach
er, pointing to the drunkard in the
gutter.
When you'see the "Black Maria”
going along the streets, when you
look with horror at the white-faced,
trembling, handcuffed criminal, and
the policemen sitting indifferent be
side him, you might well say “There,
but for early training and fortunate
surroundings, AM I”
Tha very power that makes a man
good when he is directed properly
MAKES’ HIM A CRIMINAL, BADLY
DIRECTED.
The locomotive off the track that
plows through (he workman's cot
tage, destroying life and property and
tearing up the ground, Is the same
locomotive, inuved by the same force,
that would have gone smoothly on Its
way under better conditions.
The greater its power on the track,
the greater its destruction off the
track.
The greater the power for evil In a
man, the greater the possibility of
good with the right opportunity and
start in life.
Remember that.
laiok with pity upon the poor child
(torn in the tenement, acquainted witli
vice before virtue hits been heard,
tormented by older children, frighten
ed by i asslng traffic, pursued by the
policeman when he plays, poisoned
with filth, starving for lack of sun
shine, affection and good food.
Think of such a child, before you
condemn the poor creature of the gal
lows who is the result of such a child
hood.
MINUTES IN
MANHATTAN
(By Gotham Knickerbocker.)
New York. Nume*_are no longer to
In- applied by chance. Mother and
fnther should not argue whether the
little "what Is It” I* to be plain
"John” or "Clarence de Puyster.”
Mrs. Aho-Nelth-Neypa-Cochran ho*
It all reduced to nn exact science.
fihe is “the author, founder and
teacher of the Aso-Nelth Orupto
gram, a science of numbers and let
ters,"
Bo ber business cards read. To me
In her University Heights flat Mrs.
Cochran explained It all. The sexes
are suspended between the nebulous
peaks of the two externlties by a cer
tain geometrical sign or symbol. This
sign I* expressed by a digit number.
The digit, number exclude nine, said
M ry. Cochran, for nine is simply a
number one with a zero riding on Its
back. Nine begins and end* a cycle.
You see? My, how stupid!
Every digit has it* own Individuality,
rhsraeterlstlc and temperamental rnu
siesl vibration. Each number ha* Its
own peculiar musical tone. Kind the
tone and learn your being.
Life harmony consists in adjusting
fully the LITTLE pictures above eh 'f tli c men unci nee what MADE
the man.
one’s being, one's cosmic urges to vi
brations which give forth a concord
Instead of a discord. if tk* vibration
number ol your name and your blrtii
date form a harmony—ls they coa
lesce lyou'll bo happy, if they form
a discord you will bo wretched while
others are gay.
Mrs. Cochran looked fairly happy
and prosperous. She evidently was In
harmony. Hhe said she could find a
name for anybody and was naming
thousands of children every year.
"Calls come to me over the phone.
I gel telegrams begging for names. I
get letters by every mall, ull seeking
names.”
Driven from behind by business, so
ciety is retreating around the north
eastern end of Central Park, across
the Caetbedral Parkway, to Morning
Hide Heights.
Ho we are informed by no less an
authority than Louis Keller, tbe social
register. II Is Ibis conclusion he
draws from the news Item that Mrs.
Cooper Newltt will build a now home,
witli a garden, on nine city lots at
the westerly corner of Cathedral Park
way and Lenox avenue.
Hoclety Is now a thin, seraggly line
stretching five miles from Washing
ton .Square on the south to Harlem en
the north. A social map of New York
reminds ine of the Milky Way alm-
Iraxly wandering across the sky.
A nice little business is being built
up by a group of men who are taking
advantage of the law forcing every
corporation to show Its stock lists to
any stockholders who demand to see
them.
These men purchase a single share
of corporation, say, for Instance,
United (States Hteel, and then copy off
every one of the tens of thousand*
of names on the lists. They then sell
the share of stock at about what they
paid for it. Next day they buy a share
of another tog concern and copy Its
stock list. The ‘'mulling list” thu*
compiled Is sold then to the highest
bidder.
A* the corporations are liable to a
fine of $250 every time they refuse to
hliow their books, they have a* yet de
vised no wny to stem the inroad* of
these list stealers. Private detectives
located the headquarters of one such
groups and the names of men en
gaged In the practice were published,
but exposure does not stop them.
Manhattan nnd the Bronx con
sumed 29,202,41i7,1170 cubic feet of gas
last year. Despite the use of elec
tricity, ga* Is Increasing Its sales, 1913
showing a gain of 0.39 per cent.
There I* tremendous responsibility
on tho men who govern the supply of
gas to the main. All over the city
tbe gas company has little Instrument*
which gauge the exact pressure In the
mains at that point. By law, this pres
sure at the street level rnu*t be from
ono to two and a half Inches. When
tbe pressure Is lowered anywhere the
little gauge automatically communi
cates this fact to another gauge on the
wall of one of the engine houses,
where the bell rings. A valve man,
who Is supposed to have his eye con
stantly on the needle of tin- gauge, Im
mediately throws over a lever which
raises tbe pressure by admitting ga*
from the storage tanks. Tip- entire
time consumed from the registering
IS IT HIS FAULT?'
of the falling off In tlie pressure to
tlm moment when the fresh supply be
gins to flow Into the milns Is gen
i rally not more than fifteen set oiuls.
There Is enormous hanger in lulling
the prassure fall. All over the city*
at an hum nl the day tinny persona
sleeping. If It Is night n large
number have gMs Jets t limed hoy
In their chambers. Even In the <luv
night workers are asleep in "Inside
rooms, ’ with a little light burning.
If the gas is turned off fer an Instant,
"puff!” out goes tlie I lame. A moment
later the gas begins to flow again.
The gas men Imve a grim term for this
dreaded uecldnnt. They eall It "help
ing out .the coroners."
NO TWELVE MONTHS
SCHOOL
New York Evening Hun.
The recommendation in a publica
tion of the University of Citi ugo lor
running grammar schools the «If e
year round .In order to pre <-nt "nor -
al and scholastic delinquency" as well
as "economic d waste." seem . Ut yh>»'
curiously timed, since the present -'on -V
(ern of tin public in practically overV
slate Is In prohibit tin- o\ei-working
of children.
Looked at through an efficiency
microscope, It may seem prodigal to
send youngsters to school only nine or
ten mouths, while the uliole expen
sive machinery lies fallow a quurter
of Ihe year prodigal if one could up
ply lo children purely mechanical the
ories. Hut Inasmuch us the normal In
fant sleeps 20 hours out of the 24
which might strike an efficiency ex
pert aa a sinful waste of time —in the
same ratio, It appeals highly unreas
onable In expect children of ulns or
ten to keep to an adult schedule of 13
months' lalsir In a year.
Even If their bodies could stand It,
their capacity for assimilation could
not. They need the summer months
to digest, even If by forgetting, that
which they have acquired. Without
vacation it Is likely that children
would soon reach a point of saturation
beyond which they might be unable to
learn ut all, but in any event thetr
brains would not have that fresh lm
i and enlarged comprehension
which responds quickly to new In
struction.
M 0 DERATION,” EQUANIMITY,
WORK AND LOVE
Be moderate In the usn of all things,
Have fresh air and sunshine.
The one themo of Eocleslaetss is
moderation.
Buddha wrote it down thst the
greatest word in any language Is
'‘equanimity.”
St. Paul declared that the greatest
thing In life waa love.
Moderation equanimity, work and
love -you need no other physician.
In so saying I law down a proposi
tion agreed to by all physician*:
which was expressed by Hlppocrate ,
the father of medicine, and then r •
pouted In better phrase by EpUetuJ,
the slave to hla pupil, the great IE
man Emperor, Marcus Aurelius, i <•
which has been known to evarv thlt
irtg man and woman since; Mod'ra-j
tlou, Equanimity, Work and Lav*!'
THREE