Indianapolis Times, Volume 38, Number 21, Indianapolis, Marion County, 5 June 1926 — Page 8

PAGE 8

‘Business Kisses” By BEATRICE BURTON Author of “Gloria, The Flapper Wife” ♦ (Continued From Page I)

Ah. no! Flossie must he joking. "Look here, infant.” she said sharply, "you’ve no business saying things like that, about. Mr. Dexter. He has a wife —” "Pooh! that, old girl!” Flossie broke in, waving a powderpuff carelesly-. "What, does he care about her? All she does is razz him, he says', i. And besides, don’t kid yourself that he’s the only man on earth Who has an eye for a flapper! The woods are full if/’em! Ask any one. Look around you if you don't belfeve it!” Mary Rose was only half-listening. A sudden thought fcom the back of her troubled mind just struck her: Flossie had not been home to dinner for the last three or four nights. Where had she been? She iiad proned her mother to say that she was having supper downtown with Sam Jessup, who was Mr. Dexter’s secretary. At the time it had not occured to Mary Rose to doubt her word, but now she did. Had Flossie really been with Sam Jessup? . - .Or had she been with the Rig Ross, himself? Mary Rose put one of her bands on her sister’s shoulder and turned her so that she could look straight into the innocent blue eyes. "You aren’t running around with Mr. Dexter, are you, Floss?” she asked gravely. “You know, mother'd lose her mind if she thought you were!” Flossie made no answer. She set her soft little chin stubbornly and turned away with a jerk. Without another word, Mary Rose left her and went slowly upstairs to her desk. She knew there was no earthly use in asking Flossie for the truth about Mr. Dexter—unless she was in a mood to tell it. For Flossie was not above a lie. She would tell a.nv one any kind of a vat*n to get herself out of a tight place. To Flossie a lie was not a thing to be shunned. It was a convenience. One that she used as freely as she useS her little perfumed lipstick. “Ts she really is running around with Mr. Dexter. I’ll have to put a stop to it. somehow.” Mary Rose made up her mind an hour later as she Acked her desk for the night. But how to do it —that was the question. “Well. I can see to it that she goes home with me tonight, at least, she ‘said firmly to herself, ‘‘just for a good beginning." She ran upstairs to the filing department only to find that Flossie bad stolen a march on her. She had left two -minutes before, so Miss MacFarlane., who was in charge, said. . “She had some marketing to do for h.er mother, and 'I let her go early.” she explained. “If you hustle, you may be able to c-atch her.” Mary Rose hustled. But when she reached the street Flossie was nowhere in sight. "Well, she really may have had some errands to do.” thought Mary Rose as she began her long walk home through the violet twilight. Spring lagged last year, if you remember, and the April evening was r-old. But there were tiny leaves on the trees and the air smelled fresh and fragrant. As the girl walked along she forgot about Flossie. Her thoughts turned, toward John Manners. ‘‘‘Maybe it’s only the stir of spring makes me feel this way about him.” she told herself, remembering a line ! n the old brown Tennyson on the ,; ving room table at home. ”Tr> the spring a young man’s lightly turns to thoughts of love,” it read. “Mine, too. perhaps,” thought Mary Rose Middleton. But deep down within her heart, she knew that her love for Manners had nothing to do with spring. She knew it was going to last through all her springtimes, and all her winters, too. She was sure it was "for keeps.’’ “I suppose it ought to make me happy, but it doesn't,” she went on to herself. “It can’t make you happy to love a man who lqoks at you as if you were a typewriter or a telephone.” And then: “If I can’t marry him, I shall never marry anybody!” That brought her around to the question of Tom Fitzroy—Tom, who had asked her to marry him only a week ago. She was still thinking about him when she truned the corner of New York St., and all but bumped into him. At the sight of her he turned a bright shade of pink and grinned, showing a mouthful of handsome *ceth. But he seemed to have lost his voice. * “Hello. Thomas! How’s' the busy -•'octor?” Mary Rose saluted him. In his oWn mind, Tom Fitzroy knew himself for the desirable and attractive young bachelor lie was. His father was the most popular doctnr in town, and, at 30, Tom bid fair to follow in his footsteps. His patients liked him tremendously. Rut with Mary Rose Tom w%s like a bashful schoolboy. He stammered a little now as he spoke to her. “My stink-wheel’s parked around the corner. Mary Rose.” he said. "Take you home? Glad to!”

gm% A by ELENORE MEHERIN, tfAFIIII Author of “C HIC KIE”

THE STORY SO FAR

SANDY McNEIL. in love with life, •narries BEN MURILLO, a, rirh Italian, o nlease her impoverished family . Tyranny by Murillo and frequent quarrels lollpw. A son dies at birth. 808 McNEIL. her unole. aids in plans for Sandy and her mother to take a trip to Honolulu. There she meets RAMON WORTH, who declares his love. Murillo says he will never release her. JUDITH MOORE, a cousin, tells Sandy love is everything. Sandy leaves Murillo and accepts the kindly attentions of Ramon, whose home she shares. When her mother dies she leaves Ramon and goes to live with her cousin Judith. DOUGLAS KEITH, the man whom Judith loves, introduces his Iriend. HAL HUME, a doctor tp Judith. He, himself, falls in love with' Sandy, who reciprocates his affection. This leaves Judith heart-broken. Sandy meets Ramon Worth, who has returned from the Orient, and she tells Douglas of his return. They plan to run away together. The day before, Sandv goes to Ramon’s office at his urgent request. He shoots Sandy and commits suicide. Sandy ,is taken to Hal Fame s shack when it is learned that her name is connected with the 6candal. TBen Douglas is called before detectives. whip learn that he was at Ramons office on the day of the eui-Ode. Although DougU? denies any-pari in the

Mary Rose shook her head. “No thanks, it’s only a step,” she an* swered, smiling at him with the sweetness that was natural to her. Drawn by that sweetness, Tom went on: “Come to see you tonight?” Mary Rose hesitated. She hated to hurt Tom’s feelings. But she didn't want to gee him tonight. She wanted to be alone after the racket of the day—to think about John Manners. And, anyway, was it fair to lead Tom on, when she knew she could never really care about him? “Not tonight, Tom. I’m awfully tired,” she said, and went past him. He stood watching her until she’ disappeared into the deepening dusk of E. New York St. Then he kicked a tree box with such vigor that his foot was numb for minutes afterward. “Oh, lord, I always lose out with her!” he remarked aloud and bitterly. He had hung around that corner since sundown waiting for her, when he should have been making rounds with his father. He burned up the road on his way there now. Mary Rose opened the gate and j went around to the back of the house in East New York St. In the | warm, blight kitchen her mother ! was standing at the stove, tasting j something. She turned, spoon in hand, as the girl opened the door. “Where's Flossie?” she asked anxiously. "Didn't she come home with you?” Mary Rose bent to kiss the troubled forehead before she answerejd. “No,” she said, “but she’ll be along soon. You didn’t ask her to do any errands, by any chance did you?” ' . Mrs. Middleton shook her head. Her frown deepened, “No. I didn't,” she said fretfully. “I suppose she's somewhere or other with that young Jessup again! Dear .me, I cart't see why she wants to waste her time on an upstart like him, I’m sure. With her looks, too!” “Maybe she likes him, dear,” Mary Rose suggested, hoping from the | bottom of her soul that Flossie was | with Sam Jessup. She was dread- ! fully afraid that she wasn’t. Upstairs in the little bedroom that I she shared with Flossie, she took off her hat, and put an apron on over her black dress. As she opened the top drawer of the old walnut bureau j for a clean handkerchief, her eyes caught the gleam of gold in one corner. A little cigaret holder lay there, half-hidden by an untidy mass of ribbons, handkerchiefs, collars and water-wave combs. The sisters shared the drawer; and Flossie's half of it was always in wild disorder. Mary Rose picked up the little trinket and examined it. Even before she saw the 18-karat mark on it, she realized that it was very, very expensive. Stripes of jade and platinum banded it brilliantly. Not in a month of Sundays could Flossie Middleton have afforded to buy it, with her S2O a week. And Mary Rose knew it. “Good grief! Now, where did she get that thing, do you suppose?” she asked herself. As she stood there looking at it the telephone downstairs rang sharply. Then the sound of her mother’s voice answering it, and a moment later she called: “That was Flossie on the phone. not coming home for supper, so we may as well sit down and eat right awgy. Everything's ready!” The table was set in the kitchen—the room' that was the heart and soul of the fatherless house. Here the three women ate their meals and chatted cosily afterward as they washed the dishes.- Here t'hey brought their sewing and/their Reading at the end of the day. The arrangement saved not only work, hut fuel and light—lmportant items. For the Middletons were poor. VThen T)an Middleton had died of a stroke five years before, the little house had been all the heritage he had left to his widow, and his daugh ters. But they got along beautifully on Mary Rose's S3O a week and Flossie’s $20 —or part of Flossie's twenty. For money flowed through Flossie's hands lilje water. She had never keen known to bring her pay envelope home, unopened. There was always something that shfc “just had to have” for herself—a bottle of French perfume, a pair of .chiffon stockings and fancy garters, a slave bracelet of plated i silver. Pretty things to wear were a passion with Flossie. "Did she say she was with Sam Jessup when she ’phoned?" Mary Rose asked her as she helped herself to hash and green peppers stuffed with corn. Mrs. Middleton nodded. “Yes, she did. I suppose I may just as well make up my mind dhat she's going to marry him and ne poor all her j life, Uke I've been,” she said in a dreary tone. “Work and worry—worry and work. That’s all I’ve had.” (To Be Continued)

shooting he Is taken to iaail and Indicted for murder nears conclusion and a prosecution witness testifies to seeing him in Worth's office with a woman, apparently wounded, in his arms. Douglas refuses to break his si-lem-e. Sandy, "iving a washerwoman a letter .0 mail to Douglas, is told he is A murderer. She goes with Judith to the court as the trial is about to be concluded and insists on telling her story before the jury. The story is told in detail. GO ON WITH THB STORY CHAPTER CXV A last ray of the afternoon sun. fell across the witness chair. It touched on Sandy’s face, giving an unearthly brilliance to e her eyes, lighting up her pallor. She leaned forward. Now and then she raised her hand as though she were In pain, as though her breath was hard to draw. Now and then she looked to Douglas. But he never raised his head. He never met her-eyea.

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Her voice, that had been clear and high and sweet, like flute notes filling the room, began to fail. It failed when the prosecutor asked again and again: “You lived with the deceased? Then later yoy returned to your home in Santa Barbara? Tou resumed relations with your husband?’’ “No! I’ve never gone back to him —never for a moment!” “At the time you were living with the deceased, did your husband support yo.u?” ' “No! I supported myself.” "But you say you remained several months in the cottage of the deceased at Carmel. Did he provide the food? Tou say he brought you clothes. So the deceased supported you at this time?’’ •• • / An impatient scraping of feet. A juror coughed angrily in a bellowing way. “Did he support you at this time? In return for what you gave— Norman Wood, jumping with a Vicious shrug to his feet, “I object! Your honor, I object to this prosecution of the witness. What is he trying to do—crucify the girl! She’s admitted the facts. The questions have already been answered. I object to this.meaningless repetition.” “Objection sustained.” The prosecutor answered coldly. For the first time Douglas looked up. He sat forward rigidly—ferocious with alarm. He saw wherethe question pointed. But Sandy, the dark, troubled eyes growing more and mosa bewildered, suspected nothing.

THE INDIANAPOLIS TIMES

“I have no wish to persecute the witness. A man has been shot to death. lam merely seeking to show there may have been reason—bitter reason for this shooting.” He said r.o more than this. He turned to Sandy. “The deceased did a great deal for you, you say? Tou felt a heaVy debt of gratitude?” “He did a great deal for me. I was grateful.” “He reminded you of these £g.vore?” “No.” “But in his letters he has referred to all you were to each other?’’ • • • She ndfided as a little girl does and looked fixedly at her hands held out before her. "And when you were in Santa Barbara this debt of gratitude weighed on you? The affair became rapidly burdensome? She appeared puzzled. Her lips parted and she drew a long, sighing breath. “I’ll ask that question In another way. When you were in Santa Barbar two years ago last December you were already chafing and eager to he done with your relationship? “I wanted it ended. It was so terrible—” “It was burdensome, was it? And so You wanted it ended. Finally you sent the deceased away. When he was gone, you thought you were released? You thought he had mar’ried, so you were free of bin}?” * • • Again Sandy nodded. Het lipa and round spots on her cheat glistenecWacauaff aye* bo-

SALESMAN SAM—By SWAN

BOOTS AND HER BUDDIES—By MARTIN

FRECKUIS AMD HIS

came more and more brilliant — shining like stars. “And you were shocked at his return?” Nodding. "You were oppressed by It and told the defendant you were frightened?” She glanced up Inquiringly. She put her hands to her throat, rubbed It with her fingers as though the breath were now too hard to draw.,. “Something like that. I don’t Just know.’’ “But you told the defendant you must now go away. And you must go away, because, otherwise you could not escape from the deceased's attention—otherwise you would never be free of him?” “I said I was going away.** “Because of the deceased. Ramon Worth’s return, you felt an imperious need to rush away?” “I wanted to get away.” “Because you felt that he, the deceased. considered you bound to him and would not release you?” “I wanted to get away.* “You thought the deceased was desperate?” “I thought he was. Tee—he was desperate.” "And you were afraid of what he might do? Afraid of hie claim on you? You told the defendant you were frightened?" She seemed able only to nod. “You wanted the deceased eliminated from your life?” < “I wanted to get away—away from averythlng." “You ware desperate-übeoauso cf

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Worth’s return? You say you didn't know how to meet the situation?” Another nod: “I didn't know just what to do.” “And you then told the defendant that you could never escape from Worth? Told him you wished Worth were out of your way?” “I object.” • • • the Judge leaned down to Sandy. He said softly and emphatically In a voice that went vibrantly through the room: “Did you tell the defendant you wanted him out of your way?” “Oh, no! Oh. dear God. I never said this—never said a word like this.” A stirring sigh as though every one in the courtroom released his breath In sharp, quick relief. The judge sat back, foldede hts arms, turning Sandy over again to the prosecutor. He stood and slowly rolled a hit of paper between thumb and forefinger. “You didn’t*tell the defendant you wanted Worth out. of your way, but you admit that you felt It necessary to leave the city—you felt that you could not continue to go out with the defendant. Is this true?" "I wanted to get away.” "Because Ramon Worth had returned and reproached you—because he became bitterly excited, you were afraid afraid to go out again. with the defendant?" “I wanted to get away." “You preferred the defendant to the deceased?" “I object!” t A letaai

OUR BOARDING HOUSE—By AHERN

“Very well, then —It. was clear to you, Mrs. Murillo, that the return of the deceased made 41 continuance in your then present mode of living impossible?’ "I wanted to get away.... Yes—l —we —oh —l had to leave.” “You had to leave the defendant?" And she nodded —she nodded with a desperate tormented look making her dark eyes enormous... .‘‘l had to leave him." "The deceased Ramon Worth's return compelled you to plan a farewell with the defendant....?" • • • Nodding—helplessly doing as he wished. “But before you had a chance to get away you received the phone message from the deceased? And his tone told you he was desperate?” “His tone —it was so • hollow —so thin—” “So you went down to see him. Then you realized that, he would never release you? That you couldn't get free of him?" Sandy’s Ups parted—she now looked anxiously to Judith. She now opened her hands with a little appealing gesture. And Judith stood. Judith leaned and whispered to Douglas. v The prosecutor repeated: "You knew he wouldn’t release you?" “I —yes—I—oh, he was so white—he—he looked—wild—" “And all the burden of your relationship came again vividly and oppressively before you?” "You Know —well—you! know—he gaid—‘l’ll take you with me—!’" Tsa*—ha -Mka-ywveirUh

JUNE 5, 1926

me!' When he said this he whipped out the pistol?" , “Yes—ho had the pistol In his hand...." “And you were terrified —you were resentful—you tried to get the pis tot from him?" She leaned forward, swaying In her chair. She said: “Yes—l tried to get the pistol from him " • • * "During the whole year of the deceased's absence you considered yourself freed from lilm?" “I—yea—l thought—l thought It was over." "And you were desperately driven by his return?" "I—yes—l think that's It ” “You didn't wish to return to him? You didn't wish to resume your mer relations?" Then Douglas, with his head 1 (■>•*■ ered, bit his lips. "You didn't want to return to him?" A long, sobbing breath: "No—no— I—didn't “ “And when you reached his office | you saw he was desperate—he would never realese you. He said he would take you with him?” "He said he would take mi with him.” “And you didn’t want to go with him?” Again that piercing breath: “No—” “And when he showed the pletol you tried to grab It from him? You, didn’t want to go with him. and you tried to grab the pistol?” Then Douglas shoved hla chair. I He stood and waved his clenchsd ftStr— | !