Indianapolis Times, Volume 40, Number 122, Indianapolis, Marion County, 11 October 1928 — Page 13

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CHAPTER XLI (Continued) "Oh, darling, shut up! You’re too darn ecstatic. You bore me. You make me sick. Please be miserable once in a while. Listen, Mab, I’ve got a funny feeling in my bones. You get premonitions? As if something perfectly dreadful was going to happen? Well, I’ve got one now. There’s something brewing. Something fierce. I feel it.” The electric buzzer buzzed. "Oh, yes. Come right up. We’re all ready.” Mabel slammed doors on the confusion of adjoining rooms. "It’s the agent, Sib. Perhaps he’s a premonition. Perhaps you’re going to fall in love. I told you he was a knockout. That’s rightpowder your nose.” The door opened. And a slim young man admitted himself quietly. ‘Hello, Mrs. Moore.” A soft-spoken young man, boyishly hesitant. Hat in hand, standing in the doorway, with the sun shining through the western windows on the gold of his blond young head. tt tt tt "JOHN!” J Sybil had risen from the davenport. The teacup in her hand clattered portentously in its saucer and, trembling in her clasp, crashed shrilly on the hearth. Pale as the ■waxed gardenia she wore, she cowered in awesome terror from the man she faced. Then she put out her arm to touch him and when she moved a step nearer she buried her face in her hands and shrank away again. Astounded, Mabel gazed at the tableau. “Are you John Lawrence?” she gasped. He nodded dumbly, looking at

Sybil. Sybil’s head rolled vacantly, like something set loosely. There was a horrible moment of ominous silence. Even Teddy held his breath. It was as if life itself stood still in passing. Then the man in the doorway pitched forward on his face. And Teddy’s baby terror broke the horrid quiet. CHAPTER XLII IT was Mabel who lifted the still figure, and pressed her handkerchief to the blood that trickled from his forehead. “There’s whisky in the decanter,” she said. “In the highboy, Sib. Get it between his lips. No, here — let me do it Get some water.” The two girls knelt over hin>j and Mabel’s compassionate glances was divided between the boy who lay like a corpse and the girl who looked like death. Presently his eyelids fluttered, and he gazed wild-eyed into Sybil’s face. “It’s you?” he whispered. John Lawrence passed his hand wearily across his forehead. Gazed absently at the blood that streaked his fingers, and turned like'a wondering child to Sybil. “I forgot,” he said. “It’s very strange. The war—and everything. It was all before the war, wasn’t it?” She nodded. Somewhere she Lad read stories about amnesia Once—long ago—she had believed ’ John would come back. But nobody ever did—only in books and movies. And those stories about amnesia. People didn’t put much faith in them. There was that boy the papers called the Mystery'Hero. One arm gone. They thought he lost it in the Argonne. People made such a fuss over him—alienists and psychiatrists and rich old women. Some woman with barrels of money married him. Then they discovered he wasn’t a soldier at all. He’d lost his arm in an explosion. And that ex-soldier in Roxbury—his wife had him arresteed for nonsupport. He claimed to have lost his memory, and when she faced him in court with their child, he said he had never seen either of them before. But the judge wouldn’t believe him, and sent him to jail. There were lots of stories. Am-

Lucky?

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nesia, like charity, ccv' , ~e'" a multitude of sins. But John—John wouldn’t tell such lies. Why should he? He loved her didn’t he? Os course he had wanted to come home to her. u “JT’S very strange,” he murJL mureci. And in dumb anguish she inclined her head. It was. Very strange. “The baby—is it yours?” She nodded. ‘They said you were dead. At first I wouldn’t believe it. I waited and waited. But you never came. I was married two and a half years ago. My—my husband is dead.” John Lawrence groaned. ‘God in heaven!’ He struggled to his feet, exploring, his pockets nervously. On his outstretched pal mhe extended a small white box. “Look—it’s a wedding ring. I bought it this morping. The banns were published last Sunday. Oh, my God, Sybil. What are we going to do!” He put his hands over his face, and she kissed his fingers timidly. “John, look at me, dear. It’s so long—so long ago. De we care, dear still?” She pried his fingers from his hair, and he took her hands, and kissed them wildly. Then she was in his arms—struggling, protesting, entreating. Deaf to her pleas, he caressed her. Kissed her lips and her eyes and her poor pale face, and her white throat. Until, spent with ardor, they sank on the divan, like tired children, and her head fell limply in the hollow of his shoulder ‘‘Tell me,” she whispered, and her voice was small and weary. “Begin at the beginning.” tt a tt TRUTH, they say, is stranger than fiction. Here then is the story John Lawrence told Sybil. The war played strange tricks on men. And for exquisite cruelty psychosis turned the screws—that dread affliction that spared the body and scourged the soul. He told his story disjointedly. . . . They were marching in squad columns. The objective—oh, no matter. Earth and trees sprouted up like geysers. There were weird lights in the sky and shells screeching like hell let loose. He was scared. No use lying. Knees shaking. There was an explosion. Worse than the rest. A shell, you know. Right in the middle of the squad. “Oh, darling! It’s—it’s no use. .. . Blood and mud. .. . Fellows blown to pieces . . . arms and legs —and—and things. . . . Sybil, held my hand. Ah, sweetheart. ... No Man’s Land, they call it. . . .” He was sobbing. Crying like a baby—her soldier back from the wars “Oh, John —my dear. My dear . . .” He had lain there it seemed. Days—nights—nobody knew. Once he found a little pool, crawling to it through the slime. And when he put his lips to it. and drank, it was sweet and sticky. Blood. He’d wiped it off with his sleeve. It was all over his face. By and by he dug a hole—with his hands To bury some poor fellow’s head. It lay there, you see. staring up at the moon. Awful. The teeth showed. There was a chap he knew. All he could see was his hand. Sticking out of some awful muck heap. Recognized the ring. A big, black stone. The chap’s mother had given it to him on his 21st birthday. He told John so. Someone to talk to. Oh, God, don’t let him be dead. . . He reached for the hand. Touched it—icy cold. “Come on, old man—out of that damn slime. I’ll give you a pull.” “A mighty wrench. A-h-h, there—that’s better. He chafed the frozen wrist, and hunched forward, on his elbows, to see his friend’s face. “It wasn’t Jim, Sybill. Only his arm. It came off, you see—in my hand . . . like that.” “John! Don’t dear.” “Yes—yes—l’ve never talked before. It’s like a dam that’s broken.

“There, Peg, pet! You look simply swell!” Tony pronounced, squatting on her heels and gazing upward fondly at her dumpy little mother, dressed for the painfully planned-for bridge and dancing party. “Doesn’t she, Crystal? I love that dress on you, Peg-o’-my-heart. That soft golden brown chiffon just matches your hair, now that wou’ve ►had it tinted by a real expert. Isn’t that gold silk flower on her shoulder Cleopatra’s S. A. incarnate, though, Crystal?” “What’s Cleopatra’s S. A?” Mrs. Tarver demanded suspiciously, but pleased at her daughter’s approval. “Naughty Peg! You’re too young to know,” Tony laughed. “But—don’t tell anyone! S. A. stands for sex appeal!” she whispered dramatically. “I do wish you wouldn’t use such awful words,” Peg worried. “I’ve told you a thousand times I’m sure gii'ls in my day ” “This is your day, Peg!” Tony challenged with an almost desperate earnestness behind her banter “You’re young—a mere 39! Why, that’s positively infantile! “Mile. Eloise must be every day of 42, and she’s a riot—what is technically known as a wow!" “You never talk plain English, Nomy,” Peg reproved automatically, using her own homely abbreviation of Tony’s middle name, Naomi. “I can’t see for the life of me why you made me invite that Frenchwoman to my party. “My old yellow-back g’orgraphy plainly said. ‘The French are a gay people, fond of dancing and light wine,’ and if that Mademoiselle thinks she’s going to get any light wine here—” “Now, Peg, be a lamb to her, won’t you? She’ll get dancing, anyway, so she ought to have a good time—and she will!” Tony added

Though flowing free again. It helps, Sybil.” tt tt u SO she let him deliver himself of his misery. Vaguely. Incoherently. At last they found him. Took him to a hospital. Base hospital No. 18. At Buzzoillex. His leg was broken, and his left arm. “See—how crooked it is. The leg set better. Shrapnel scars on my body. Ribs caved in. Pretty much of a bust. And I couldn't tell them a thing, Sybil. Not my name, or my outfit. Nothing at all. My mind was an absolute blank. Everything that happened before the explosion might just as well have never happened, so far as I was concerned.” When squads blew up, men were put down as missing, presumably dead. The presumption was safe enough. And that was how John Lawrence came to be listed first as "misisng”—and, finally, “killed in action.” He had escaped in delirious flight from Base Hospital No, 18 in his pa jamas one night. If they had known his name, they would have dropped him after ten days, as a deserter. But, because he w'as nameless, he was spared that ignominy. And. when they came upon him in Bordeaux they sent him back again. There were months of it. He did not know how many. Finally the Armistice was declared. “But I was off my nut. I didn’t care.” “And you didn’t ever think of me?” she whispered. “No, dear. You see ... I wish I could make you understand. It was as if my past was all behind a great wall. If I could pierce the wall, I knew I’d find the life I’d left behind. I simply couldn’t get to it. It was like a physical struggle, trying. “It was as if I had died and gone. . . . Oh, say I’d gone to Mars. And after death, I knew I’d lived dreadfully far away. There was no on a different planet. But it was one on Mars who could help me go back, and no one on earth to come to get me. Do you see, dear? Can I make you feel the thing at all? It was like standing cn a brink, with darkness behind me. Trying to remember, was like trying to see with eyes bandaged. There was not one glimmer of light to help. it a tt ‘ J TRIED to reconstruct a life such x such as other fellows had. I studied faces, photographs even. Searching for features, eyes, smiles, anything that would help me remember. Middle-aged faces, like father’s and mother’s. I tried to reconstruct my childhood. “Then I began to wonder if there had been a girl. A sweetheart. I read love stories, seeking to relieve any romantic episode that had colored my life. I closed my eyes—and thought of kisses —soft arms, a beautiful face, a lovely body. And I made myself ache with longing—but that was all. It brought back nothing. "Finally they sjnt me home—to the States, Walter Reed Hospital in Washington. There was a congresswoman from Massachusetts there, Mrs. Foster. ‘Angel’ the fellows called her. “She took an interest in me, the same sort of interest she took in every poor devil. She had a notion I was from Boston. She talked to me about Harvard, but it didn't mean a thing. I knew a little German and some Spanish. I’d read a good deal and discovered I could translate Greek. But I don’t know yet where I learned those things. “You’re all I remember, dear. Nothing else but you. And until I saw you, when I opened that door, you hadn’t crossed my mir.d in ten years.” Sybil bit her lip on a despairing littl moan. “Do you remember everything now. John?” “No—but I will. It’s coming back. I can feel it. It’s like seeing figures In a fog. I found you first. I’ll find the rest later.” He drew her to him. “Do you love me, Sybil?” (To Be Continued)

with a queerly significant grin at Crystal. “Remember Mamselle was a dear old teacher of mine and Crystal’s and we want her to have a good time. “I don’t suppose you have to teach your own mother manners, young lady!” Peg Tarver retorted tartly. “Attagirl!” Tony laughed. “Come along, Crystal. There’s the bell. I suppose Pat’s still struggling with his tie, the poor darling. You run help him, Peg. “You look adorable, Crys. But come along. I hope that’s the fair Eloise. I told her to come earlier than the party really begins. Now remember, this is your scheme, and you’ve got to help me for all you’re worth. But seriously, Crys, don’t make any veiled hints about the poor creature’s baby. I wouldn’t stick at anything else to get Pat out of her clutches, but—” Crystal flushed as she promised. It made her dimly uncomfortable to know that both Tony and George Pruitt were more squeamish about using Vera Castle’s letter than she would have been “Thank heaven, she didn’t wear evening dress!” Tony whispered, as the two girls peeped into the drawing room into which Annabel, the colored maid, had ushered the Frenchwoman. “I’d have simply died if she’d come here with those exquisite shoulders of hers bare and dimpling at my Pat! I’m afraid he’s gc’ng to be ga-ga enough as it is. Look at her! Isn’t she stunning. I’d almost forgotten how grand her s; nthetic blonde hair looks under electric light. “Oh, God,” Tony prayed, not at all irreverently, “give me strength and cunning to play the cat for one evening, at least, and I’ll never be a cat again. Amen. (To Be Continued) ,

THE iiSHIAiS A-POLjLiS TjlalEo

OUT-OUR WAY

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BOOTS AND lIER BIDDIES

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THE BOOK OF KNOWLEDGE

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OUR BOARDING HOUSE

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The league became a part of the treaty of Ver. m „ . V ' sailles, but when Wilson returned home he found much Wilson offered to the opposition to both. The Senate hesitated to ratify the world his ideal, the idea League. Wilson stumped the country to win sympathy of a League of Nations, f or his dream of a peaceful union. While on a trip to working together for the west to try to arouse sentiment for the idea, his peace, bound by sacred frail body collapsed. (To Be Continued) pacts not towage war. iir^pee. c^ight. dw,t>e,i,.reieiy. k>-h

SKETCHES BT BESSEX. SYNOPSIS BX BIIALCHER

PAGE 13

By Ahern

—By Martin

Bv Blosser;

By Crane

Bv Small

By Cowan