Indianapolis Times, Volume 42, Number 24, Indianapolis, Marion County, 7 June 1930 — Page 11

JUNE 7, 1930.

OUT OUR WAY

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TWiifWives COPYRIGHT * IBY ARTHUR SOMERS ROCHE co.

SYNOPSIS Eleanor Sanvers. a beautiful New York heiress, eoes to a smart night club and there meets Bynthia Brown a chorus girl, who is amazingly like Eleanor in appearance, mannerisms and expression. The .two girls Introduce themselves smilingly and strike up a spontaneous friendship which is sincere though 1 "Eleanor* has no intimate girl friend of her own age and is tom by emotion because she has to marry Dean, whom she does not love, the following day. On the morning of the wedding day she phones Cynthia Brown and asks her if she will come and see her after her return from her honeymoon. CHAPTER FOUR “\7-OU may be sure of that,” said JL Cynthia. ‘‘Good luck and happiness.” “Thank you,” said Eleanor. That was all, and reviewing it after she hung up the receiver, ■Eleanor wondered that so little • should seem so much. Why, merely because they looked alike, should there be between these tw’o, almost total strangers to each other, an affinity that made for complete sympathy and absolute understanding? For it seemed to her that she had recognized in Cynthia not only a replica of her own body, but an exact counterpart of her own heart and mind. Further, though the absurd apprehension which she had felt last night was completely gone, there remained a belief amounting to positive certainty that their two lives would be inextricably intermingled. But this doubtless was a part of the nervousness wnich belonged to the day and the occasion. And what an occasion! Eleanor had been among the bride’s attendants at other weddings, but the barbarism of the ceremony never was more patent to her than now. Illuminatingly. she wondered if it were possible, if it ever had been possible, for riches to accompany good taste. Certainly this magnificent ceremony was not to her liking, but she had deferred to the wishes of Daddy Tom, who. by George, was going to give his little girl as big •t sendoff as any other girl of the generation. And Daddy Tony wasn't vulgar, wasn’t ostentatious; at least not according to the lights of his fellows. And if his fellows’ lights were strong, then one must impeach the good taste of the royal houses of Europe, the good taste of power since civilization began. For garish display was a part of marriage. But, just the same, it was vulgar, though she stqpd alone in the belief. • The press on the avenue outside the cathedral, the cameras, the frank comments of the bystanders, as well as the newspapers for the past fortnight—all of these combined to embarrass her. a a a AND when, after the final words of the solemn formula had been pronounced, her husband seized her and kissed her, embarrrassment became a shrieking agony. This was the man whom she had sworn to love, honor and obey and to whom she could make good only the last two-thirds of the vow. How they made their way from the cathedral to the motorcar, how they rode home to the reception, how she reached her room, where she was to change to a traveling costume, she never knew. Thank God for one thing; after the first kiss Dean had been content to postpone further embraces. But in her room, being divested of her bridal array, the thought of those deferred caresses became almost unendurable. But she would not think ahead, or, if she did, she would remember that the man whom she had married was indisputably a gentleman. Late telegrams, from friends who had been unable to attend the wedding, cluttered her dressing table. There were letters also, and their presence gave her an excuse for lingering in her room. Once she left that room to greet the guests downstairs, she must take her stand by her husband, to belong to him henceforth. Here, in hei room, she still belonged to herself, and prolongation of this self-pos-session was the most precious thing in the world. There were begging letters ano crank letters, and then, halfway down the pile, a once familiar handwriting seemed to bum her eyes. There was no stamp on the envelope It had evidently been delivered by messenger.

Phil! Oh, why had he written her today? Yesterday, or tomorrow, would have been bearable, but today. ... A cowardly thought insinuated itself into her mind. She had only to tear the envelope across and toss the pieces in a wastebasket. To do otherwise might even be disloyal to the man whose name she now bore, who doubtless was poorly hiding downstairs his impatience for her appearance. a a a BUT there wr also another disloyalty, a ' v .ioyalty to the sweetest memory ! her life. And though events had proved that the sweetness was without honest foundation, nevertheless it had been sweetness, and to it she could not be guilty of any infidelity. She opened the letter. ‘‘My ever dear Eleanor: “I never thought you’d do it. I never though you’d really believe that I was the sort of person who would give you up because your father threatened that fcs’d give us nothing. ‘‘After he spoke to me, I waited to hear from you. You never sent me word. But just the same I had faith in you and believed that you simply waited for me to come to you. But I couldn’t until I’d made good. After what your father said to me I couldn’t dream of asking you to marry me while £ was still miserably poor. When * read of your engagement, I wouldn’t believe it. But by the time you receive this you’ll have been married ard I’ll know you were unworthy of my faith. I couldn't come to you because I’m still a failure, still a portrait painter without sitters. And a loveless failure has no place in life. “When I have given this note to a messenger I shall kill myself. And in so doing I’ll probably prove that your father was right. Weaklings do not deserve the daughters of the strong. But still, I love you.” The very melodramatic phrasing proved his sincerity. Phil, who hadn’t been faithless, but who had merely been proud, was dying, was perhaps already dead . . . The furniture in the room seemed to rock. . . . Then she was not a fainting almost hysterical girl for whom melodrama was too overpowering. She was the daughter of Tom Sanver, who had faced failure when his father hr A died a bankrupt, but who by ruthless strength had built amid the ruins an estate fifty times greater than that which his father had lost. a a a ELEANOR turned to her maid. ‘Mary, don’t let any one in the room. Lock the door after me. and say that I am resting. Mind, no one is to come in, no one is to know that I’m not here.” The maid's lips parted in startled protest, but Eleanor cut her short: ‘‘l’m going down the back stairs. I’ll be back in—l don’t know how long. But if it’s a year, you let nobody In. Understand?” Gone was the gentle mistress whom Mary had known for five years. In her place was a tyrannical, not-to-be-denied figure of purpose, who was so confident that she would be obeyed that she waited for no response from the terrified maid. At the cost of the whole world knowing, she’d go to Phil. If he were dead—she wouldn't contemplate that. Tom Sanver had constructed the Sixty-third street mansion in the days of his financial activity, when it was desirable, and at times even necessary, that he should be able to enter or leave his home without notice. Os late years the exit through the apartment house next door, which Sanver owned, rarely ha? been used. But Eleanor used it now. stepping into a lobby tenanted at the moment only by a telephone clerk, who fortunately did not recognize her. And the crowd in the street all locked toward the Sanver house and did net suspect that the centra] figure in today’s great social event was stepping quietly into a taxicab behind them. In a voice that did not tremble even slightly, Eleanor gave the driver the address which had been on Phil’s letter; the Burlingame, on Lexington avenue, near GramAnd she was there.

—By Williams

entering the shabby hostelry within ten minutes after leaving her house. a a a IT was the sbrt of place that didn’t object, apparently, to the masculine guests having lady "Visitors. A bellboy, with the formality of offering to announce her, led her up a .flight of stairs, and stopped before a dingy door. It was unlocked, and Eleanor entered. There, stretched upon a bed, whose linen was crimson with the flow from his slashed wrist, lay Phil. Not the merry-eyed, tanned Phil of four years ago, but a haggard, wan man whose nearly vacant eyes lighted with recognition. Before she took a stride toward him, Eleanor spoke to the departing bellboy. “Doctor in the house? Fifty dollars if he’s here in ten seconds.” The boy broke into a run without a backward glance, and then she was kneeling beside Phil, doing her amateurish best toward stanching the flow of blood. But the bellboy earned his SSO. A competent though dissolutelooking physician pushed her aside before she had a handkerchief tied above the cruel cut. He worked deftly and in ten minutes pronounced the patient out of danger. Eleanor’s purse was stuffed with money. She had not wanted to discuss finances with Dean on the honeymoon. She gave the promised fee to the bellboy and twice that amount 10 the doctor. “And you will not mention the matter?” she asked. The doctor looked at the bill carefully folded it and stowed it away in a pocket. “You can trust me,” he said insinuatingly. “And you can trust me to pay,” she retorted. U ft St THEN, as he departed to fetch a nurse, she fell on her knees beside the bed. “Phil. Phil, promise me ” By an effort amazing in his condition, he managed to sit upright on the bed. “I promise you this: The minute you leave me I’ll tear the bandage off my arm. “I’m married, Phil,” she pleaded. “That’s why I want to die,” he told her. “But you must be reasonable ” He laughed weakly. “Reasonable? When the girl I love is leaving me to go on a honeymoon with another man? Why did you come?” She answered without giving thought to her words. “Because I love you.” “Then nothing can take you away,” he cried. Back on Sixty-third street her father. Dean, the guests, might all be looking nervously, apprehensively, at each other. “But don’t you see, I must go,” she argued. He met her strength with the overwhelming forces of his own weakness. “I thought I'd be dead long ago. I’ll make no mistake next time. Are you going?” (To Be Continued)

THE SON OF TARZAN

Meriem owed her life to an accident. At the very instant Malbihn fired at her. his canoe ran upon a submerged tree trunk, giving the craft a slight jolt. But it was enough to throw his rifle out of aim. The bullet whizzed harmlessly by the girl's head as she disappeared into the foliage. Meriem threw, back a mocking laugh at the baffled Swede. Soon she had

THE INDIANAPOLIS TIMES

BOOTS ANI) HER BUDDIES

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FRECKLES AND HIS FRIENDS

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WASHINGTON TUBBS II

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SALESMAN SAM

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MOM’N POP

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Fighting his way through the tangled jungle a mile to the east, a man in torn khaki—haggard and bruised!—came to a sudden stop as the report of Malbihn’s rifle resounded through the forest. A dozen times he tripped and fell as he forged ahead, but at last he and his black companion came to the fringe of jungle upon the river s brim. Through the screening foliage Baynes saw Malbihn's canoe leaking raaidly for the opposite shore.

—By Martin

Morison Baynes could scarcely repress a shout of exultation as he also behe'd the canoe Meriem had abandoned. Quickly the two slid down the branches into the boat. As it shot out upon the bosom of the river, Malbihn spied it. He fingered his rifle and waited. Now the canoe was in liailing distance. Malbihn. on the shore, with a start of surprise, saw the white man was Baynes. He knew that Baynes had

OUR BOARDING HOUSE

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By Edgar Rice Burroughs

Malbihn shrugged his shoulders. Others had sought him for vengeance during his checkered career, yet he still lived. Aiming his rifle, he yelled, “What do you want?” * Baynes leaped •to his faet. “You!” he shouted, whipping out his revolver and firing almost simultaneously with the Swede. As the reports rang out Malbihn staggered, then fell, and Baynes crumpled backward into the canoe. The two white men, far from civilization, had shot each other.

PAGE 11

—By Ahern

—By Blosser;

—By Crane

—By Small

—By Cowan