Indianapolis Times, Volume 42, Number 35, Indianapolis, Marion County, 20 June 1930 — Page 20

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Twin Wives COPVRIfiHT * BY ARTHUR SOMERS HOCHE COLLIER'S weekly

SYNOPSIS Cvnthia Brown, dancing: Kir!, after she had freed herself from Dean’s arms, stood for a moment in torment. She was suddenly overwhelmed with the conviction that she loved Dean though she realized that he had been married but a few hours before to Eleanor Sanver. friend and double, whose place she was taking for a few hours with the brideiroom. She struggled with her loyalty to leaner who was at the bedside of her former lover who had attempted suicide. but at the first embrace of Dean ail her resolutions melted away and as she struggled to compose herself she sought to draw him out with a general talk on love. t CHAPTER FIFTEEN "T>UT the illusion of a home D would be gone." she argued. "And so, if two people are unhappy, how can you say that they have not been disillusioned?" “Perhaps they are for a while, but what do we know of eternity? How do we know that true lovers are not united again?" “Oh, you’re just saying words now." she chided him. “Using up time that might be better spent?" She had thought herself a mistress of verbal fencing, but he was as expert as she. Eeach conversational thrust she made was parried neatly, and she was on the defensive. His las't question was one to which he expected an obvious answer. That answer must not be made. More than an hour had elapsed since they had escaped from the wedding guests. It might be another hour before Eleanor telephoned. Abruptly she brushed her hand across her forehead. The gesture, unplanned, was more efficacious than any carefully thought out plot could have been. Dean, expectant, eager for an assent which would mean a further yielding of herself, exclaimed in quick sympathy: “You poor darling. What a selfish brute I am! To forget all about your headache!" He was all solicitude now, the conquering lover had vanished, his place taken by a sympathetic friend. Cynthia, hating herself for the lie. touched her forehead again. “Silly of me, but all the excitement—” “You’d better lie down,” he suggested anxiously. She feigned a proper reluctance. “You won’t be lonesome?” She regretted the question intently it was put, but Dean's anxiety for her made him ignore the unmeant coquetry. “Never mind about me. You’re the one to be thought of. Here I’ve been bothering you when you should have been asleep." Ia a a V a LONE in the bedroom which was an exact copy’ of Eleanor's room in the Sanver house. Cynthia marveled anew at Eleanor’s preference for another man. Never could there have been such consideration and kindlinness. Then she realized that she was exaggerating a normal gentleness. Probably Eleanor exaggerated ivialities in the character of Phil Jennings. However, it was not time in which to wonder at Eleanor or to pity herself because a love that could never be realized had entered into her lifeThe only thing to be thought of now was an escape from her hideous predictment. That escape could come only by the aid of Eleanor. And as minute after minute passed, until more than two hours had followed since she had heard from the wife whose identity she had adopted. Cynthia’s hearache ceased being a fiction and became a very real fact. Suppose Eleanor telephoned now and asked her double to continue the deception for another couple of hours? What then? Would she refuse? Just how far would she go in support of Eleanor's insanity? Once again Cynthia felt a revival of hatred reward the other girl. Why was life so stupid? And why had people, with their conventions, done so much to add to life’s stupidity? Why was it an unthinkable thing that she should go to Dean, relate her incredible story, and that they two should cleave to each other? But this was self-pity and to this ignoble feeling she would not give way. She leaped from the bed on which she had been half reclining and walked nervously up and down the room. More minutes had flown by, and still there had been no word from

Eleanor. She saw that there was a telephone, cunningly hidden in a cupboard by the head of the bed, similar to that recess In Eleanor’s room in her father’s house. On impulse she opened th door, looked up the Burlingame in the telephone book. Then she put the instrument down. Mary was not here to guard the door and the hall outside against a possible listener. Words might be exchanged over the wire that might arouse suspicion. Moreover, suppose she got Eleanor on the telephone and Eleanor, relying on that strange bond between them of whose existence she had been so quickly and completely aware, refused to leave the bedside of her lover? Even as she felt that her determination was rigid, Cynthia wondered if it might not become pliable. She might find herself unable to refuse to remain in the house a little while longer. But if she left the house, went to Phil Jennings’ hotel and saw Eleanor face to face, her resolution would not waver. She didn’t know why this was so, but felt that it was a fact. Perhaps it was because, having once departed from this house, a return would become an offense infinitely greater than remaining in it without departure. a a a SHE slipped on the hat which she had removed a while ago. She opened the door of her room and looked out. Down the hall, from Dean’s study at the rear of the house, she could hear through halfopened doors the sounds of someone moving. It must be Dean. For a moment she debated the idea of telling him that her headache was so great that she was going to take a walk in the open air. But he would, of course, suggest that he accompany her. Refusal might be difficult. leaving the house without notice to him might seem strange, but the explanation would be up to Eleanor, not to herself. Also, she was sick of deceit and barefaced lying. Even a lie white by comparison with the great lie that she had been living for the past few hours was a thing to be avoided. Even to tell this man that she had a headache galled her. At the head of the stairs she turned and from her finger tips blew a kiss toward the study. She would never see him again. Oh, she would take care of that! In the years to come the poignant anguish of longing for him might be assuaged. This wafted caress, which he would never know about, would be her farewell. Lest she burst into tears, she ran swiftly down the stairs. Two flights below the liveried servant who had admitted the bridal couple to their new home looked at her in surprise. It was perhaps necessary tc make no explanation whatsoever, but Cynthia’s nervousness was so great that to hide it she spoke to the man with an elaborate nonchalance. “Going out for a short walk,” she said. a a a IF the man thought it strange that the bride should leave the bridegroom so soon after their arrival here, he was too well trained to show his amazement. He simply opened the door for her departure. She walked rapidly to the corner, turned it, went a block north and there, on Park avenue, picked up a taxicab. She told the man to drive her to the Burlingame on Lexington avenue, and ten minutes later was speaking to the clerk at the desk of that shabby hostelry. “Mr. Jennings’ room?’’ she as' ■*. The clerk started at her. Intc ; shifty eyes crept bewilderment. • What’s the big idea? Leave something there?" Cynthia caught the implication of his words instantly. Os course, he took her for Eleanor. Then a further implication, inspired by his manner, came to her. “Because If you left anything," the clerk went on. “it's gone. Two women have been cleaning the ' place—it was like a slaughterhouse —and if they’d found anything it would have been turned in here at the desk.” So—this was the second implication—Eleanor and her lover had left the hotel. Before she had time a

—By Williams

to think she put a question to the man. “Where did they go?” “Where did who go?” The clerk wrinkled his brows. “You took Jennings away. You ought to know where he went?" His eyes looked a vague suspicion. “What sort of an act is this anyway? You come down to see him in one dress, you come back in ancther, and now you’re wearing the first dress again." a a a SHE took what later she thought was the only correct way out of the situation. Turning on her heel she walked swiftly out of the building. Her impulse was to question the man, ask when Jennings had departed, how it had been possible to removing a dying man. But she resisted the impulse, and on reflection was glad that she had done so, for that vague suspicion in the clerk’s eyes might have defined itself into something more active than suspicion. As it was, she had an uneasy feeling that the man might detain her. After all, the crime of attempted suicide had been committed on the premises: Cynthia didn’t know what penalties might be attached to the commission of such an offense or to what extent Eleanor might be involved in Jennings’ transgression, in the eyes of the law. She didn’t regain her shattered composure until she had turned into Twenty-third street, and on that crowded thoroughfare felt herself secure from pursuit. But, of course, she reassured herself as she progressed toward Madison Square, there was no possible reason why any attache of the hotel should follow her. Then—and her step quickened momentarily—she though of blackmail. Eleanor, on her first appearance at Jennings’ hotel, obviously had been expensively dressed. Cynthia now was wearing Eleanor’s clothing. Blackmail might easily pop into the head of the hotel clerk. Furtively she glanced behind her, and was not calm again until she was in a taxicab obtained from the rank on the south side of the square. Not that she was really calm even now, for as soon as she felt secure against being spied upon a thousand fears replaced that comparatively minor one. Where had Eleanor gone? Where had she taken Jennings? If Jennings died, what would Eleanor do? There must have been doctors—one at least—and a nurse involved. Had these helped Eleanor take Jennings away? And why had the supposedly dying man been removed from the Burlingame? Surely he would have been endangered by the jolting of transference, no matter how carefully it was carried out. (To Be Continued) The first kind of water purification was by sand filtration. In 1895 the mechanical process was introduced whioh is forty times as fast and removes from 98 to 99 per cent of the bacteria.

THE SON OF TARZAN

When speed was required of him Korak depended on no other muscles than his own. So after Tantor had again landed him across the river the ape-man deserted his bulky companion and toot to the trees in a rapid race toward the place where, from the Swede’s hint, he believed the white girl might be. Dusk was falling when he came to the old familiar palisade. Loosening the rope at his- waist he tossed the ncxe over one posts.

THE INDIANAPOLIS TIMES

BOOTS AND 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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A moment later his eyes were above the level of the obstacle taking in all within their range beyond. Close by there was no one in sight and Korak dropped lightly to the ground within the inclosure. Then he commenced stealthy search of the village. Not even the wild Arab curs heard his passage, so silently he went. Suddenly he stopped short—scarcely believing his ears, as clear on the evening air came the strains £t an old English song.

—By Martin

Before Morison Baynes was bound and flung into a stifling hut, the wary Sheik made him write a letter to the English consul, at Algiers wherein was demanded a large sum for his release. And then for a while he was left alone, a prey to his thoughts, and the miseries of his situation, the least of which was the loathsome, squealing rats. One day he heard voices raised angrily in the tent next to him. One was a woman’s. He glistened, convinced it belonged to

OUR BOARDING HOUSE

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/ V.rv -,-Dluuuk-T T V'N f " / MESE'4 VKt.CWCK!

By Edgar Rice Burroughs

He tried to think of some way of attracting her attention to his near presence. An idea came to him In his rich tenor he sang a phrase from a melody he had often heard her sing during the happy uays of Bwana’s house party For a moment 1 e paused and then came her answering voice. She had recognized hi*. She speke rapidly. “Good-by, Morison,” she called. “It is I, Meriem. Tomorrow if I still live I shall be worse than dead, for ’’ A terrible silence followed.

.JUNE 20, 1930

—By Ahern

—By Blosses

—By Crane

—By Small

—By Cowan