Indianapolis Times, Volume 42, Number 36, Indianapolis, Marion County, 21 June 1930 — Page 5

JUNE 21,19301

OUT OUR WAY

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TwiiiWives COPVRIGHT " BY ARTHUR SOMERS ROCHE COLLIER'S WEEKLY

SYNOPSIS Dean Carey was so evidently in love With Cynthia Brown, chorus girl, whom he believed to be his bride ol the day, Xleanor Sanver, that he again tried to embrace her but Cynthia was afraid to trust herself In his arms and In her desperation feigned a headachy. She lay down In Eleanor’s room while Dean descended to his study and then stole out and took a taxi to the cheap hotel where she supposed Eleanor was nursing her former lover Phil back to life after his attempted suicide. When she arrived she was dismayed to learn that Eleanor and Phil had departed for an unknown address an hour before. She ran out hurriedly to look for them. CHAPTER SIXTEEN A PREVIOUS thought recurred to her: attempted self-de-struction was a crime; perhaps it was to avoid the consequence of crime that the desperate risk of moving Jennings had been taken. Still, if the hotel people had already not informed the police, what had made Eleanor think that they later would tell the authorities? Perhaps, though, Jennings had been taken to some hospital. But in that case an ambulance would have been summoned, Cynthia thought, and the clerk would have made some remark to indicate that. But more Important than any of this was something else Why hadn’t Eleanor telephoned her? It was hard to believe that, even with Jennings dying before her eyes, Eleanor would be so reckless of the consequences of discovery of the deceit being practiced upon Carey that she would fail to keep her word to Cynthia. Yte she had done so. And not because of the strain of witnessing Jennings’ disillusion; the fact that the wounded man had been removed seemed to indicate that his condition had improved. But why, then? The question was unanswerable, unless Cynthia chose to believe that Eleanor had become suddenly utterly reckless, not cautiously daring, although one could hardly characterize her daring as being mitigated •with much caution. Still, she had not embarked upon a prolonged absence from her husband without placing Cynthia in the center of the bridal festivities. She had not intended to leave her husband for long, apparently, when in response to Jennings’ frantic letter, she had slipped away from her father's home. It was hardly credible, no matter liow much she loved Jennings, that she would have remained with him unless the miracle of Cynthia had happened. As she phrased the thought, Cynthia's lips curled at the word she had chosen. Miracles had to do, she thought, with goodness in the part that she hac been playing this day. Well, It was a part that no longer could be played. She had gone with Dean Carey to the new Carey home, sne had stayed there more than two hours, she had submitted to an embrace and returned it. Her cheeks übmed now at memory of that embrace and she hated herself because her blush was less of Shamed embarrassment thin of agony because it never coulo have a repetition. She had given Eleanor ample time, and tragic farce, so far as Cynthia was concerned, was ended. She would return to her shabby little flat on Forty-eighth street. a a u HER lips parted in excitement. Why. of course, that would be the obvious destination of Eleanor. ■Che would, if she was to escape the prying curiosity of the employes of the Burlingame, take Jennings to Cynthia’s apartment. She leaned forward and instructed the taxi man, whom first she had told to drive up Fifth avenue, to take her to West Forty-eighth street. There she would find Eleanor, and there she would become Cynthia Brown again and Eleanor would take up those responsibilities which she had evaded the last few hours. That is—and doubt and fear crept into her mind—if her reasoning proved correct and she found Eleahor. But what if it wasn’t correct? What if she didn't find Eleanor? But these were questions that she even refused to put to herself as yet. The Negro telephone clerk still revolved a cigaret from corner to corner of his mouth, apparently * wallowing it with anew ease gained by additional practice. The dingy lobby, the creaking elevator. the shabby hall above, the furnished apartment into

which Cynthia admitted herself with her key, the one personal belonging she had kept—everything was the same as when, some hours ago, she had left the building. That is to the eyes of another everything would have seemed unchanged. But in the hours that had elapsed since Cynthia had yielded to Eleanor’s persuasions things had happened to alter, perhaps distort, Cynthia’s vision. She had left this apartment a chorus girl in Zogbaum’s show. Accustomed to no luxurious way of living, this dwelling place of hers had not seemed so bad. True, it was not as airy and spacious as the Ohio home had been, but compared with rooms in European pensions it had not suffered. She had dreamed of nicer things, of ways of living superior to this, but these dreams had not formulated themselves into anything definite. She had read of yachts and country houses and of the thousand and one dainty luxuries with which women of fashion ease the task of living, but reading and seeing are different things. tt u a TODAY she had glimpsed the realities of wealth, and had not seen them as a spectator, but as one of wealth’s sacred circle. The Sanver mansion, with its magnificent ballroom, with its throng of guests about each and every one of whom seemed to hang an aura of money; Eleanor’s bedroom, its furnishings, the dressing table accessories whose cost alone must have been more than Cynthia could earn in years; Eleanor’s maid; the new home to which Dean Carey had so proudly taken his bride; the houses that abutted upon the garden which was like an oasis in the desert of the city; the servants; the motor cars. These things had for the time belonged to Cynthia, been a part of her life. Always avid of impression, she had not realized how waxen she was, had not known how deeply ! graven upon her consciousness each new experience became. But now she was surprised to note that her first reaction was not of despair that her flat was empty of people, but of distate because it was bare of the niceties of existence. For, instead of being aghast at not finding Eleanor and Jennings here, she was conscious of disgust at the greasy carpet, the stained walls. She sat down on a rickety chair that had been uncomfortable when it was new and that had aadpd apprehension to discomfort as the years passed by. She tried to understand this new Cynthia with whom she had just become acquainted, this Cynthia who, when she should have been reduced to hysteria, instead turned up her nose at matters that had been more than endurable yesterday. She was no more given to selfanalysis than any other healthy young woman. Although ambitious, she had been too content with life to study her own reactions to this and that. But now. amazed at her self, bewildered that in a moment like this she could regret her lack of possession of things which she never had desired ardently a few hours ago, she asked herself what manner of person was this Cynthia Brown. * AND, because she had the rare gift of self-honesty, she knew the answer to her question. The sudden contempt for her little flat was not due to any wish for material things, but was due to the fact that material things oddly seemed to represent Dean, and it was Dean that she wanted. And because she wanted Dean, her first reaction had not been of horror because Eleanor was not here, but of self-contempt because she belonged in this milieu and had no right to want Dean. She wondered if she had known all along—that is, since she told the taxi man to drive her here—that she would find her apartment vacant Had she known this, out, because decency compelled her to wish otherwise, refused to admit her knowledge? No, she hian’t known it; she really had expected to find Eleanor here. But way down deep inside her there had been a feeling of injustice at the fate that had given Eleanor the

—By Williams

and had denied it to Cynthia, who did want it. That feeling of injustice had burst into full bloom as she, like a Cinderella, had returned to her poor abode. That was why she had been able to contrast her lot with the lot of the class to which Eleanor and Dean belonged, instead of finding herself submerged beneath a flood of horrified speculation. Or perhaps recognition of the fact that she almost must instantly make the most momentous decision of her life had numbed her wit.,? to all save unimportant externals. People who have received dangerous wounds, she had read, are frequently unconcerned with the life that is slipping from them. Nature is sometimes gentle and produces a sort of anesthesia which makes us happily unconscious of the greater matter while alert to the lesser. Well, this mental anesthesia which temporarily had dulled her was losing its potency now. As one comes out of ether, so she became alive to the situation. The questions that she had refused to put to herself as she rode up here shrieked for answer now. u o WHAT was she going to do? She knew of no possible way of ascertaining the whereabouts of Eleanor and her lover. And had Eleanor wished her to know where she and Phil had gone, it would have been easy for the errant girl to telephone. She had promised to do so and had not kept her word. It was useless to speculate on the reasons behind this amazing disappearance. Cynthia had done enough of that already. Instead, it was time to come to some definite conclusion as to her own actions. She was appalled at the fact that she could consider pondering her own actions. For over and over again she had assured herself that her departure from Carey’s house had been equivalent to a departure from Carey’s life. The bond between herself and Eleanor had become tenuous through too great strain; she had believed that it had snapped when she left, furtively, the home destined for the bridal couple. She had done all for Eleanor that she could do, more than any decent woman—and she blushed —would have considered doing. Os course, what Eleanor would term good reason might not seem to an ordinary person to be worthy of mention. Eleanor had managed ca > find good reason for leaving her husband of half an hour while she fled to the bedside of her lover. The girl was abnormal, no question of that. But Cynthia, who had substituted herself for the errant bride, was also abnormal. She was forced to admit this. But her own departure from normality would only be caused by the urgent need of another, whereas Eleanor would do as she did to please herself. (To Be Continued.)

THE SON OF TARZAN

On the evening that Korak entered the Arabs’ village Meriem had gone to her rude bed in the women's quarters. It was in a comer of the Sheik’s tent screened by two priceless Persian rugs forming a partition. Presently the old chief parted the rugs and beckoned to her. “Meriem,” he called, “come here.” Listlessly the girl obeyed. By the flickering firelight she saw his half-brother, old and hideous, who gave her a entered.

THU IND!

BOOTS AND HER BUDDIES

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FRECKLES AND HIS FRIENDS

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WASHINGTON TUEBS II

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SALESMAN SAM

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MOM’N POP

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“You will be mt tried,” the Sheik said, ‘to Ali ben Kadin. my brother.” That was all. He left the tent and the old Arab came toward her. Meriem shrank back horrified. Ali Ben Kadin clapped his hands. At once two slaves came in and at his bidding seised her and dragged her off to the old fellow's tent. Here Meriem pleaded and threatened, but to no avail. Twice she tore herself away from him. Then it was she heard Baynes singing the tune meant for her ears. __ and

—By Martin

As the sounds of the scuffle ceased Morison Baynes went white with horror. He struggled frantically with his bonds. Freeing one hand he was able to cut the rope from his ankles and made for the tent’s opening. As he stepped out a huge black barred his progress. Rage and a sudden bestial fury transformed the slight young Englishman into a savage beast and gave him strength. He leaped upon the giant black with a force that sent the slave to the ground.

OUR BOARDING HOUSE

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By Edg-ar Rice Burroughs

Here they fought, the black to draw his knife, the white to choke the other’s cry for help. The Negro succeeded in drawing his knife and Baynes felt the sharp steel pierce his shoulder. Feeling with one hand over the ground, searching for some missile, his fingers touched a stone and closed over it. With a terrific blow he stunned the black, and ran for Meriem’s tent. But another reached it before him. U was Korak. the KiiiSfi

PAGE 5

—By Ahern

—By Blosser;

—By Crane

—By Small 1 vr

—By Cowan