Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 217, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 13 September 1915 — IN BOHEMIA [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

IN BOHEMIA

By GEORGE MUNSON.

“How do you like Bohemia. Miss Lane?** inquired Stanford. Dorothy Lane drew in her breath. **l think it is just heavenly.'* she said, watchinc the lights and the dancers in the cabaret. “And to >hlnk I lived all my life without knowing that these things exist!** “They’re all very well In their way,” answered Sanford. “Only don’t estimate them beyond their real value, Miss Lane.” Dorothy had persuaded her parents, who were rich, to give her a year in New York. Ostensibly she was studying at an art school; but if you had questioned her and she had been honest, she would have told you that she was studying life. A young man, dressed in the extremity of fashion, who had been executing a dance with a slim blonde, came up and sat down at the table. “I’m dry,” he remarked, addressing all the party, though his eyes rested on Dorothy. • “What’ll you have," asked Sanford, smiling. “Absinthe," answered the young man. “Hello! Excuse me a moment.” While he was gone to speak to his late partner, Sanford turned to Dorothy. “It’s the way in Bohemia,” he said. “Introductions aren’t considered necessary. You don’t mind?” / “O, I think it’s delightfully linconventional,” the girl answered. When the young man came back he drifted into an earnest conversation with Dorothy, after drinking the strange, greenish-white liquid which

was supplied him. He asked her to dance. The girl, in exhilaration, seemed to float over the boards. And when the dance was over the young man and she sat down in a corner behind screen, under a palm. He Was the son of an English nobleman, he told her. But for family reasons the marriage had to be kept quiet He had borne the undeserved stigma upon his birth at his dead mother’s plea. His father had refused to acknowledge him. He did not like the life in the cabaret But one had to live.

Dorothy listened in a trance. Such things, then, happened in real life, and not merely in books! It seemed impossible. In a moment kindly Sanford was forgotten. Sanford, well-meaning, and a good friend to her, had taken her to the Cabaret Richelieu at her request to see “something of the shady side of life.” He thought the inexexperienced girl more worldly than she Was. Had he understood nothing would have induced him to take her, with the party of friends, to such a place. The young man's soulful blue eyes seemed unutterably sad. “May I hope to meet you again?” he asked. "Perhaps,” breathed Dorothy. "When?” “Tomorrow night?” It was settled, and the girl's heart beat fast as he led her back to the table, where Sanford gave her a kindly scolding for sitting out with the man He did not know the secret of his birth, and Dorothy felt honored in keeping it to herself. Sanford took her home, laughed at her enthusiasm, and said good-by. He never dreamed what plan was in Dorothy’s head. On the next night Dorothy, innocent, went to the cabaret alone. Timidly she sat at a table. She did not know what to order. Before she had answered the waiter, a young man came up to her and invited her to dance. The leer on his. face struck Dorothy cold with terror. . Suddenly, with a bound, her friend of the night before was at her side. “Get out of here!” he stormed at the other, who withdrew grudgingly. A moment later Dorothy saw him laughing with the slim blonde woman. It might ha«e seemed curious, but all her attention was concentrated on the young man at her side. She told him her Own story, of the pent-in life In the country home, her rich old father, absorbed in moneymaking, her loneliness in New York. "But you need an escort,” said the young man. “May I be privileged to cal* myself your friend?” I can

■how you life—the real life. . . .** On the next evening he called , for her in a taxicab and took her to half a dozen cabarets. Dorothy had an impression of a whirl of music, dancing, and laughter. The young man had no change and Dorothy paid the taxicab bill —twenty-two dollars. She had an idea that the cab driver smiled when he took the young man home.

St Clair —that was his name —had explained how his share of his grandfather’s property was being held up pending a lawsuit It would be a matter of a few weeks only. Dorothy, with all the money she needed, had offered to be his banker. The next day she bought him a diamond pin. He had said he had lost his pin. How surprised he would be at the gift! He was. And, always respectful, he took her here and there and everywhere. The girl’s eyes were opening fast Their comradeship, so frank and friendly, took on a softer note. She let him hold her hand. Once he kissed it and she thrilled with happiness. He was to call and take her to a private theatrical entertainment —very exclusive, very elite. Dorothy was surprised that it was to be given in a private house, but she went upstairs without demur. They were the first guests. Excusing himself a moment, the young man withdrew, leaving the girl alone in the dimly-lit room. It was a two-room apartment, with a curtain in the middle. Dorothy began to, grow uneasy. She heard footr steps—and suddenly two men and a woman—the slim blonde —burst in. “There she is!” shrieked the woman. “O you hussy! I’ll teach you—l’ll tear your eyes out —” She struggled wildly in the grip of the men, while Dorothy, white with terror, waited mutely. “Well, Miss we’ve trapped you,” said one of the men. “We are detectives from the Dolf agency. If you’ve got any friends you’d best communicate with them, for Mr 6. Seaforth here means to prosecute her divorce suit through thick and thin.” Before Dorothy had quite taken in his meaning the second man, seizing advantage while his comrade struggled with the blonde, came quietly up to Dorothy. “Five hundred will square it, and we’ll swear we never found you,” he whispered. “Come, give me your note —all your money and an I. O. U. It’s safest, and you won’t have any publicity.” At last the girl realized the trap into which she had fallen. Half fainting, she clung to the window curtains, her eyes fixed mutely on the scoundrel’s face.

Suddenly the door burst open, and there stood Sanford —kindly Sanford, now red with rage, and wielding a revolver. “Get out of here —the pack of you!” he snarled. ; With wonderful speed the blonde, recovering, shot through the doorway, followed by the two confederates. Sanford held Dorothy in his arms, “There, my dear!” he said, stroking her hair. “I was to blame. I felt uneasy and followed things up. Those rogues had laid a trap for you. I know. I know.” And, half supporting her, he led her from Bohemia. \ (Copyright, 1915, by W. G. Chapman.)

“May I Be Privileged to Call Myself Your Friend?”