Indianapolis Times, Volume 35, Number 259, Indianapolis, Marion County, 12 March 1924 — Page 8

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FORTUNES Ls * * ittrr**Tti) sy ■1 . R.W. vonoiHt . ° iug UI4AM* iv MA iin rif mm

BEGIN HERE TODAY Colonel Holies, soldier nnd adveneurer. returns to England, his natiee land, when war with Holland is declared. His Grace of Buckingham hires Holies to abduct the actress. Sylvia Farr.uharson. It is dark when the Colonel carries her to the house Buckingham has rented. Upon their arrival Holies is horrified to gee that Sylvia is an old sweetheart. Buckingham and Holies engage in a duel. The servants of the Duke render the Colonel unconscious. When Buckingham attempts to embrace Sylvia, her dress falls fnqm her ihroat. revealing a purple blotch'Moken of the plague, which is spreading so rapidly iu London. The Duke and his servants flee. The Colonel remains to nurse Sylvia and save her life. When the doctor pronounces her out of danger Holies asks the whereabouts of Buckingham. NOW GO ON WITH THE STORY H ONE with the rest,” the docs _ tor informed him. “He left ___] town for the North a week ago, aroused to a sudden sense of his duty rs Lord Lieutenant of York by the fact that a French lackey in his household was stricken with the plague. He'll be safe enough in York, no doubt.” Acting upon a sudden impulse. Dr. Beamish left the room, and mounted the stairs again—for all that his time was short and his patients many. Dismissing Mrs. Dallows upon some trivial errand to the kitchen, he remained closeted for five minutes with Miss Sylvester. That was the name by which he knew her, the name by which she had chosen to make herself known to both doctor and nurse. Whether it was a result of what he said to her in those five, minutes, or whether other influences were at work, within an hour of the doctor’s departure. Holies was sought by Mrs. Dallows with a message that Miss Sylvester was risen, and desired to speak with him. The eyes of that kindly nurse, sharpened by solicitude, saw him turn pale and tremble at the summons. He was washed and shaven, tolerably dressed, and his Jong, wellcombed. golden-brown hair hung in long, smooth ringlets to the snowy collar which Mrs. Dallows had found time to wash and iron for him. He found Miss Sylvester seated by the open window, where he himself had sat throughout the greater part of thpse five days and si-: nights when he had so unceasingly watched over her to beat hungry death from her pillow. She occupied a great chair

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set for her there by Mrs. Dallows, a rug About her knee.\ She wore that gown of ivory white in which she had been carried to this evil house, and' her chestnut hair had been dressed with care and was intertwined' with a thread of pearls. Wistfully she looked up at him as he entered, then away through the open window into the hot sunlight that scorched the almost empty street. He closed the door, advanced a pice or two, and halted. “You sent for me,” he said, “else I should not have ventured to intrude.” And he stood now like a groom waiting orders. “X sent for you, sir, that I might acknowledge the great debt in which you have placed me; to thank you for your care of me, for your disregard of your own peril in tending, me; in short, sir, for my life, which had been lost without you.” She looked at him suddenly as she ceased. “You owe me no thanks—no thanks at all,” he said, and his voice was almost gruff. “I but sought to undo the evil I had done.” “That . . . that was before the plague came to my rescue, in what

“I BUT SOUGHT TO UNDO THE EVIL I HAD DONE.” you did then, you sought at the risk of your life to make me the only possible amend, and to deliver me from the evil man into whose power you had brought me. But the plague,.now. It was no fault of yours that I took that. It was already upon me when you brought me hither.” “No matter for that.” said he. "ReparaticJft was due. 1 owed it to myself.” “You did not owe it to yourself to risk your life for me.” “My life, madam, is no great matter. A life misused, misspent, has no great value. It was the least that I could offer.” “Perhaps," she answered gently. “But also It was the most, and, as I have said, far more than you owed." “I do not think so. But the matter is not worth contending.” “At least the reparation you have made is a very full one.” “It wou'd comfort me to hear you say it, could I believe you,” he answered grimly, and would have taken his leav*> of her on that but that she stayed him by her lnterlection. “Why should you not believe me? Why should I be other than sincere in my desire to thank you?” He looked at her at last, and in his eyes she saw some reflection of the pain he was suffering. “Oh, I *believe you sinoere in that. You wish to thank me. It Is natural, I suppase. You thank me; but you despiso Yne. Your gratitude can not temper your contempt. It Is not possible.”

“Are you so sure?” she asked him j gently, and her eyes were very plte- j oua. “Sure? What else can I he? What else is possible? Do I not loathe and despise myself? Am I not so con scious of my own infamy that I should befool myself Into the thought that any part of It can escape you?” “Don’t!” she said. Ah. don’t!” But in the sorrow in her face he read no more than the confirmation of the very thing she was feebly attempting to deny. He bowed, formally, and turned away. “Randal!” she called to him as he reached the door. Tie paused, his firm resolve beaten down by that pleading utterance of his name. “Randal, won’t you tell me how . . . how’ you came into . . . into the post, tion in which I found you here? Won’t you tell me that? Won’t you let me know all—all—so that I may judge for myself?” A moment he stood there, white to the lips and trembling, fighting his pride—that pride which was masquerading in the garment of humility, and so deceived him that he suffered it to prevail. "Judge me. madam, upon the evidence you possess. Tt is sufficient to enable you to do me justice. Oh. God pity me! Don’t you see? Don’t you see?” Her eyes were suddenly aswlm in tears. “I see that perhaps you judge yourself too Jiardly. Let me Judge for myself. Randall. Don’t you see that I am aching to forgive?” Is my forgiveness nothing to you?” “Tt would be all,*’ he answered her. "But I could never believe in it. Never. You are aching to forgive you say. Oh. blessed, healing words! But why -is this? Because you are grateful to me for the life I have helped to save?” Softly he w’ent out. and closed the door. She heard him go. and suffered him to do so, making no further attempt to stay him, knowing not what to say to combat his desperate convictions. ' CHAPTER XXIV Evasion The weeks crept on, and August was approaching. Sfion now the 1 eriod of quarantine would be at an end. and the house in Knight Ryder St. reopened to liberate its inmates, the passing of time wrought no I change in the mood of Holies. Not

f[ UGft MEAkloJfs To Bpl M ( LAT> 1 VIISvWoU \ MAsIV QUEER CORKS - “to CAkIOPEKIER WOULD tUTORK ALL OS ALREAW, V)E I (HIVOUR PERSONAL -me HEBTOS OF T>orfl-We AHV*ORS _ j aevair<3, V wJovJ BUT Household To %xoo< in! VoO tHak! WAS TWA-T LETTER ASSEMBLE IKI TvA\<S ROOM A BOOTLEGGER’S VOR VOU <SO VERY J -riot-AORWOVJ EVEkIIUG - r - IkJCOMBTA* REPORT T IMPORTANT pi r x DWOLGE THE JL MAT A9K 4*/ -DETAILS OEThA-T LETTER, u| Alii) I V&KiTbRE To rs”! \ * I F \ saV Too will all J " ‘tfUE MA"fOR iUS A BUS SURPRISE FOR BfeR^SOWTOKORROW

BOOTii AND HER RUDDIES—

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MOM’N POP—

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once again did he seek to approach Nancy, and not again did she bid him to her presence. Thus August found them, and from the watchman he heard incredible stories of London’s deepening plignt, Whilst 'front the window he nightly be't#W the comet in the heavens, that latest portent of menace, the flaming sword otr wrath —as the watchman termed it —that was hung aboce the accursed city, stretching, sis it seemed, from Whitehall to the Tower. They were within three days of tl*e

OUR BOARDING HOUSE —By AHERN

THE OLD HOALL TOWN—By STANLEY

re-opening of the -bouse when at last one evening Mrs. Dallows came to him trembling with excitement,“ and a little out of breath. “Miss Sylvester, sir, bids me say that she will be obliged if you will step upstairs to see her.” The message startled him. “No, no!” he cried out like a man in panic. Then, controlling himself, he took refuge in postponement chat would give him time to think: ‘ Say . . . say that if Miss excuse me .t. . not this ecgK|. I

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am tired. . . the heat . . he vaguely explained. The nurse cocked her head on one side and her bright little blrdllke eyes considered him wistfully. "If not this evening, when? Tomorrow morning?” "Yes. yes,” he answered eagerly, thinking only of averting the immediate menace. "In the morning. Tell her that I ; . . I shall wait upon her then.” v. Tie sat and smoked and thought, resolved that at all cost^^hatlntgr-

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Figure ’Hits Out

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An Insectless Bug

view must not take place. One way there was to avoid It and definitely to set. a term to the menace of It. That was to break out of the sealed house at once without awaiting the expiry of the legal term. The thought became a resolve and, having reached It, he gave his mind peace. This, Indeed—and not the pains and risks he had taken to save her from the plague—was reparation. Anon, when she came to consider and weigh his action, she would perceive its true significance and purpose, and

OUT OUR WAY—By WH,LIAMS

h HECKLES AND HIS FRIENDS—By BLOSSER

the peroeptlon might at last blot out the contempt of him which perforce must be abiding In her soul however she might seek to overlay It with charity. * A thought seized him, and, growing to exalted him. He' sought pen, Ink and paper, drew a ohair to the table, and sat down to act upon his Inspiration. He wrote on into the fading daylight. He lighted oandles, and wrote n with that swift fluency of the r" who has* dear tale to tell and

WEDNESDAY, MARCH 12, 1924

the eloquence that comes naturally from a bursting heart. The candles, faintly stirred by the night breeze that came through the open window, burnt down, and great stalacttites of wax were hanging from the sconces; still he wrote without pause. Once only he paused, to procure and light fresh candles, and then wrote on. N.ot until long after midnight. not until the approach of dawn, did he cease; his task accomplished.' (Continued in Our Next Issue)

—By MARTIN

—By TAYLOR