Indianapolis Times, Volume 42, Number 49, Indianapolis, Marion County, 7 July 1930 — Page 12

PAGE 12

OUT OUR WAY

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I TwhnXlves COPYRIGHT • IBY ARTHUR SOMERS ROCHE ?OLXE^!^_WEEKL>^_JJ

SYNOPSIS Cvnthla Brown was baffled and distrait. When she arrived home with her supposed husband, who believes she Is his wife. Eleanor Sanver, the heiress, Cynthia's exact double, she realises thi t not only did she love him. but that he loveo her. She f.un* a curt "good night" to him and rushing to her room, dismissed the maid and threw herself fully clothed on her bed. She could not let Eleanor’s husband make love tr, her without being false to her promises to Eleanor and yet she feared that her feelings would betray her if he came near her again. In the midst of the reveries there was a knock on the door and on opening It she found the man she both feared and loved on the threshold. He entered her room for the flrst time since his promise to malt three months for her to make up her mind and again she repulsed him by clever coldness and withdrawal. CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE YET he had known, and now that he knew, how long could he restrain himself from efforts to win a spoken avowal? He had been chivalrous tonight as in the past, but the measure of p man’s future chivalry can not be gauged by his past performances. Dean might well convince himself that she wanted to be taken by storm. Since people had heard of Freud, and drawn their mistaken conclusions from his none too sound premises, the idea of breaking down inhibitions had been accepted too widely. Bennie, too. probably was lying awake tonight, gloating at the thought of the terror he had inspired in her and planning the method by which he would extract from her the fortune for which he was so greedy. Tomorrow she must make the beginnir g of a definite attempt to find Eleanor. Weren't there private detectives on whose discretion one might rely? The thought comforted her and made it finally possible for her to sleep. But in the morning matters whose terrifying outlines had been softened by darkness took on their frightening proportions again- Cynthia’s New’ York experience had been slight. But she had read and heard that private detective agencies were rarely reputable. How could she be certain that she, choosing at random, would select an honest agency? Ordinary common sense insisted that the more people who learned of her true identity the greater became her danger. Something else, too, entered into her calculations: she had no right to share Eleanor's secret with anvore. For. after all. she must not become confused. It was Eleanor whom she sought to protect and not herself. Nothing could happen to herself save ignominious dismissal from this house in which she lay and cogiated now. On that first afternoon when she had faced the wedding guests she had imagined all sorts of impossible punishments. She had even anticipated iie interposition of the police. She had wondered if she could be arrested and sent to prison if her impersonation were discovered. a a a SHE no longer feared anything like this. Reflection—and observation of the characters of Carey and Sanver—had taught her that these two men hardly would court public exposure of so scandalous a proceeding as this action of the wife o." one and the daughter of the other. It vas enough that Bennie Thompson knew of her imposture. She would not voluntarily add to the ’’timber of her enemies. And bach came her thoughts to the consideration of what course of action Bennie Thompson would adopt to profit by his knowledge of her impersonation. Her quick mind saw a flaw in her reasoning. Because she knew all the truth, she had ignored the possibility that Bennie could know lev than -X the truth. She had assumed that Bennie knew of her impersonation. He couldn’t possibly know anything of the sort. She drank the coffee which Mary brought to her and dismissed the makl. Fortified by the beverage, and soothed by an after-breakfast iigaret, she tried to itemize the matters of which Bennie was cognizant. And there was a difference—she mustn't forget this—between what a person knew and what that same person could prove to be a fact. Bennie knew that Cynthia Brown a chorus girl in Zogbaum’s revue, had rehearsed several weeks, played the opening night, and failed to bbow up again. He knew that

Cynthia Brown was Eleanor Sanver Carey. At least he thought he knew this. What he really knew was that Cynthia Brown now passed as MrsCarey. It could not by an chance have occurred to Bennie that there were two girls who resembled each other so amazingly that they had changed identities. a a a WEALTHY society girl de- j ceives her husband, lives double lile, poses as chorus girl, and flees job on eve of great success.” That was the way Cynthia believes Benr.y would summarize the situation after her denial of her real name when he accosted her in the Ritz. and her later denial that she was Mrs. Carey, when he questioned her in her apartment, and she decided that it would mean to Bennie that the rich Mrs. Carey wanted to keep her escapade a secret from her friends. It would never occur to him that the chorus girl had no right whatsoever to the name and position of Dean Carey’s wife. Now, how probable would be Bennie's assertion that Cynthia Brown and Eleanor Carey were one and the same person? He could produce—possibly—people who had played in the same company with her and the attaches of the apartment house where she had lived. But she could produce Tom Sanver, Dean Carey and all the hosts of Eleanor’s friends. So far as material witnesses counted for anything, she would have all the best of it. But those intangible things! The fact that she had denied herself to Dean; the fact that Tom Sanver had commented on her strangeness. Oh, if once a real suspicion found lodgment in the minds of Dean and Sanver half a dozen questions which they readily could put to her would expose her imposture instantly. / But would it come to such a pass? The situation was too bizarre. When Bennie should make the statement that Eleanor Sanver had danced in the chorus on the opening night of the Zogbaum show, Eleanor’s husband and father would reply instantly that the statement was | false, for the simple reason that I Eleanor had been sitting in a box all during that performance. n a m SHE was granting, of course, that Bennie Thompson would manage to gain access to either Dean or Sanver. and that he would get beyond his introductory speech without being thrown out. But for the protection of Eleanor she must assume that this could happen, so she might ccmbat its effect if it did occur. Would Bennie be convinced bv the proof opposed to him? He would if it so happened that he harbored a mere suspicion. But he didn’t; he harbored knowledge. But it- was obvious that Bennie Thompson would not go to Dean or Eleanor's father, save in the rage of last resort. When you tell the guilt of the blackmailed person to those most interested, you have lost the power to extort money from your victim. So Bennie Thompson would hesitate a long time before he took the chance of losing his fortune. But | could she count upon this? Could I she count upon anything, no matter i how sound it seemed as she rea- ; soned it out? The telephone jangled faintly in j the recess by the head of her bed. As always when it rang, her heart skipped a beat. It might be Eleanor. But it wasn’t It was Wilson Bannerman. “Perhaps your father told you,” he said after the introductory formalites had been completed, “that I was concerned about the amount of money you have lying idle with | us." "He did," she replied, "and I'll be down to see you in a day or so.” “Ail right,” he assented. That was all, but it was enough. It didn't matter that she was using Eleanor’s identity at Eleanor’s re- | quest. The moment that she signed Eleanor’s name to any document she would be guilty of a criminal offense. Moreover, the plea of an injured hand might not avail. It was possible that when she wrote with her left hard she would be minus some characteristic that should be in the writing, eveaxhe left-handed writ-

—By Williams

ing of Eleanor. Maybe this was far-fetched reasoning, but it nevertheless was frightening. She couldn’t do it. She could take no further chances of jeopardizing Eleanor’s position. Sardonically she wondered if Eleanor, wherever she might be, ever would think of Cynthia’s position. a a a HOW unfair it was of any one to impose such a task as had been Imposed upon herself by Eleanor! Again her thour’‘‘s were sardonic. Terming this situation unfair to herself was like applying adjectives to the ocean. None would fit it. But more than words failed to fit this situation. Actions, any that she co’ild think of, were as unsuitable to cope with her difficulties as speech was to describe them. Up to now she had hoped that she could handle every difficulty by herself. It suddenly came to her that she never had been able to handle any difficulty by herself. She had been aided by amazing luck. She must have help. It came to her logically that old Tom Sanver was the only person to aid his daughter. Dean was out of the question. He never would forgive Eleanor for the deception practiced upon him. She put away from herself the feeling of triumph that this thought brought with it. She had taken on this amazing task to aid and protect Eleanor. Not even to save her own love would she betray the girl who had trusted her. There was only, if one counted out Dean, Tom Sanver left. And there could be no disloyalty to Eleanor in telling Sanver the whole incredible story. Sanver would want to shield his daughter from the consequences of her madness. a a a HE received her in his study, a room in which he played at work. There had been a time when the telephones on his desk had carried orders that had meant the very existence of thousands of people. Industries had been created or wiped out according to Tom Sanver's ideas of what constituted efficiency. The great of politics and of finance had come to this study and had departed in triumph or in woe, dependent on the attitude of Tom Sanver. Cynthia guessed at part of this. The idle telephones; the filing cabinets; the great desk now devoid of papers; these made her think of some deserted city, of seme great machine that had ceased to function. And there was something almost pathetic in the eager joy with which he greeted her. She guessed that Tom Sanver found life rather wearisome since his retirement. “First time you’ve been to see me since your marriage,” he accused. “You’ve been away, and I was over last night.” She hated herself for the smile she gave him. (To Be Continued)

RZAN AND THE JEWELS OF OPAR

Lieutenant Albert Werper, afte* six months of loileliness in the Belgian Congo, was in a dangerous meod. Secause he had dishonored his family name, the young man had been banished from the gay life of mussels. Now, in this isolated section of Africa, he brooded over his monotonot v existence until his hatred towards his superior officers had become a form of mania. f.

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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Tonight, he sat upon the veranda of their common quarters, glaring in silent rage at his captain, the one supreme object of his dislike. The captain was a silent man and Werper interpreted this silence as a studied attempt to ignore him. Werper imagined that his superior held him in contempt, and so he fumed inwardly until now his madness became suddenly homicidal. n

—By Martin

Nervously fingering his revolver, Lieutenant Werper’s eyes narrowed and his brows contracted. At last he spoke: “You’ve insulted me for the last time." He sprang to his feet as did the captain, upon whose face was an expression of surprise as he turned toward his junior, though -he had often seen men with this jungle me 3xmm upon them, the madness of solitude and brooding.'

OUR BOARDING HOUSE

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By Edgar Rice Burroughs

He extended hlr hand to lay it soothingly on Werper’s shoulder, seeking to calm him. Quiet words of counsel wer A upon his lips, out they were never spoken. Even before he could defend himself, the enraged Lieutenant pulled the trigger. Without a moan, the captain sank to the floor, and, as h* fell, the mists that had clouded Werper's orain lifted. He realized he was a murder est

JULY 7,193 CM

—By Ahem

—By Blossei*

—By Crane

—By Small

—By CowaH