Indianapolis Times, Volume 42, Number 58, Indianapolis, Marion County, 17 July 1930 — Page 8

PAGE 8

OUR WAY

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f7mnTmiJl iBY ARTHUR SOMERS ROCHE

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT *ls UT I didn't have much money D left. So I couldn't give him any. I told him so. got a taxicab, and he climbed in with me. “We were held up in traffic and I heard Dean call me. I turned and saw him. and luckily thj traffic started again. The doctor didn't notice what had happened. He rode to my apartment with me and said he would give me a day or so to think it over. If I didn't give him money he'd tell the police about Phil's suicide.” "But if he told the police that.” injected Sanver. "he'd expose himself as having helped to hide the fact.” “Don't you understand? I was tired, too tired to argue, too tired to think, to reason correctly. So I moved to this hotel. It didn't matter much where I waited for death, knowing that death was sure to come.” She closed her eyes. Cynthia's hand crept up and touched the fingers of Sanver. The fingers closed about her hand tightly. "I know how cowardly it all was,” Eleanor finally resumed. "But I couldn't bear the explanations, the scenes, the everything that must be undergone if I came back. “I knew’ that Cynthia was being loyal to me. that she would not betray me. I knew that I was betraying her. and that my betrayal became viler with every day that it continued. But I hoped for death to come and blot me out. And then tonight I knew that death had been too long delayed.” She looked at Cynthia. "I don't know what was in my mind. I don't think anything was in it except thoughts of my own misery. In a drugged sort of way I knew that you could take care of any situation that might arise just exactly as. if I were in your place, I could take care of it. "I think I believed that my dying would somehow solve all difficulties--3 knew you'd know, Cynthia, just as I knew I'd know if anything threatened you.” ‘But if you had died and Cynthia knew it, how would that affect her and Dean?” asked Sanver. Wearily Eleanor shook her head. 'I hadn't answered that question even to myself. I just know that death solves all difficulties. It does, doesn't it? But tonight I suddenly knew that I could no longer be a coward. I knew that Cynthia was in danger.” “In danger?" ejaculated Sanver. Eleanor ignored the question. She started at Cynthia, and beneath her gaze the red rose in Cynthia's cheeks. "When I went to Phil and didn't know what to do, your voice seemed to say to me. ‘Here am 1/ Tonight I heard your voice calling to me. telling me that only I could save you. And so I telephoned. Cynthia. was I in time?” Silently Cynthia nodded. ana •t WISH you hadn't called. I wish 1 I hadn't felt your need for begging my aid. For when a situation can have no solution, it is best to seek none. You would have been Dean's wife in fact as well as name, and where would have been the wrong? “Only I could have been wronged bv that, and soon I shall be dead. And in life I wouldn't have cared. I hated myself for answering the call you seemed to utter. But you had not failed me in my need, so I could not fail you in yours. “And it was not my part to sit in Judgment and decide for you the questions that involved your own soul. I might think—l did think—that your need was not great. “I thought that it would be better if Dean never knew that you had taken my place. But I knew that your soul would not have called to mine unless you felt differently.” Sanver's face gic w heavier with mystification at each sentence that she uttered. And each time she referred to her death. Cynthia felt his fingers tighten convulsively about her hand. Now he spoke: “And now ; ou're going home. Oh, not to Dean.” “I want to go to Dean.” said Eleanor. "I intended to shirk everything, but now that I’ve told you both. I want io tell Dean." Her eyes clouded. “He's the best man I ever knew, except you. Daddy Tom. much finer than Phil, though loved Phil -v

“I've treated him shamefully. I can at least be brave enough to face him, tell him how I have wronged him. and hear what he has to say to me. It won't be pleasant, but neither the pleasant nor the unpleasant matters any more. Shall we go?” She tried to arise from the bed, but could not do so unaided. Sanver raised her and supported her as she stood. She looked terribly fragile. An yet, Cynthia told herself, there could be nothing organically wrong with the girl. A sensitive mind had been wracked by grief until toe body showed the effect* But a period of rest, of complete relaxation, and of tender care w’ould drive morbidity out of her thoughts. And with the departure of morbidity would come the return of health. nan THIS was the girl with whem Dean Carey had originally fallen in love. In another week she would be just as pleasing to the eye as Cynthia. She had done Dean a great wrong, but not the ultimate wrong. She had been unfaithful in the mind, but she had given only her mind to Jennings. And Cynthia believed that before Eleanor would have surrendered more to Jennings she would have come bravely to Carey and told him her intention. Dean was a chivalrous gentleman. Eleanor's condition forbade harshness from Dean. He necessarily* could be pityingly gentle toward her. Then his gentleness would become tenderness; tenderness would revive love, and then passion would sweep all memory of all wrongs done to him. A moment ago Cynthia had been convinced that Eleanor would die. She asked herself now if this conviction of hers had been in any measure due to a recurrence of those hated thoughts which had envisaged Eleanor dead. And Tom Sanver wanted her to go back with them to either his or Dean's house! Dean knew that she loved him. Dean knew that she had meant to yield herself to him tonight. Her face burned with shame. As Sanver's back was toward her, she slipped through the door. Face the man who would know that she had been willing, aye eager, to give herself, unw’ed, to him? She would rather die. There were stairs near Eleanor's door. She ran hastily down them and out in to the street. Her great adventure was ended. For her no more of high and dangerous romance. but the drab reality of life. The bored clerk at the desk sensed the entrance of romance and mystery into a dull existence. Cynthia's hurried flight across the lobby might mean a quest for a doctor or a clergymen or even—he had a glorious imagination—a policeman. The woman of mystery upstairs might be anything or might have done anything. The clerk never had happened to see Eleanor, or the resemblance between the guest in 311 and the woman who fled into the street might have aroused speculation more fanciful still, but which yet could not even have approximated reality. a a a BUT he was of that class which seldom permits its imagination to stimulate it into physical activity. So that when Sanver, a minute later, dashed up to him and asked in which direction the girl had gone the clerk wr s unable to answer. Sanver, on the sidewalk, could see no sign of Cynthia’s scurrying figure. She might have turned south upon MacDougal street or she might have gone toward Sixth avenue. There happened to be few pedestrians on the street, and if she was still in view he knew that he could have distinguished her, even at night, from any one else. But she had taken full advantage of the minute of headway. She was gone! It might be that he could make a lucky guess as to which direction she had chosen and overtake her. But in the meantime there was his own daughter, flesh of his flesh and bone of his bone, helpless upstairs. Her morbid talk had alarmed her father; that death for which she seemed so impatient might be advanced by some act of hers. With heavy tread he turned back into the hotel. He knew that Cynthia never would voluntarily return. Cynthia had gone toward Sixth avenue. Aa she reached the elevated stair* a backward glance told

—By William?

her that she was not being observed. She ran hastily up to the platform above and a moment later was speeding uptown. At Forty-second street she alighted from the train, descended to the street and stood a moment in indecision. Her life must be reconstructed again. When she had yielded to Eleanor’s importunities and embarked upon that imposture which, reckless at the start, had assumed the proportions of tragedy now’, she had been compelled to reconstruct her life. ttan AND now she could not take up the threads of her old life again. Where w’as she to go and what was she to do? But these questions could not be adequately answered here in the street. Ch<= w’as conscious of sudden fatigue that physical weariness that follow’s upon too great emotional strain. If she stood here a moment longer she felt that she would scream. She must get off by herself. She understood now that instinct which prompts the wounded animal to crawl into a hole. She turned north and in a couple of blocks saw the electric sign of a hotel known to her by reputation as a hostelry w’here few questions were asked. Sh?. had heard the girls in the theater make jesting reference to the place. But a hotel of this class probably was the last place where she w’ould be sought. She turned Into it. asked for a room and bath, and stilled the insolence of the clerk by handing him the check for the trunk which she had left at the Pennsylvania station. An instinctive caution had made her keep that check alw’ays about her. No matter which purse, of the many Eleanor owned, she carried, the check w r as transferred from one to the other. Also she laid ten dollars on the counter. Os course, arriving at a hotel without hand baggage, even though possessed of a trunk check, was somewhat unusual, but this hotel was the scene of many unusual proceedings. She was quite sure that the clerk had forgotten her before she had been ushered to her room. Nevertheless. she felt furtive and somehow degraded. CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE IT had been an effort for her to sign her name on the register. At random she chose “Jane Thomas" and added as address the city of Chicago. But why should she be forced, like a criminal fleeing from justice, to abandon that name which was rightfully hers? Names have more significance than is commonly understood. Names place us in the scheme of things; they assign to us a certain importance that, nameless, we lack. A name connotes a present and a past, and the assumption of a false name made Cynthia feel like a rudderless and abandoned ship. It seemed to leave her spiritually naked. (To Be Continued)

TARZAN AND THE JEWELS OF OPAR

As Tarzan rose from the body of his kill to scream forth his hideous victory cry into the face of the moon, the wind carried to his nostrils something which froze him to statuesque immobility and silence. Soon the grasses parted and Numa, the lion, strode majestically Into view. Numa's yellow eyes glared enviously at the successful hunter, for toe hungry beast had no luck this night.

THE INDIANAPOLIS TIMES

1 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

MOM’N POP

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From the lips of the ape-man broke a rumbling growl of warning. Numa eyed him with growing resentment and rage. At last the famished lion could stand it no longer. His tail shot suddenly erect and at the same instant the wary ape-man, knowing all too well, what the signal meant, grasped the deer and leaped into a nearby tree just as Numa charged with all.his speed of an oncoming express.

—By Martin

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Close by were many trees bearing large, hard fruits and to one of these the ape-man swung with the agility of a squirrel. Then commenced a bombardment which brought forth earthshaking roars from Numa. One after another, as fast as he could gather and hurl them, Tarzan pelted the hard fruit down upon toe lion. The tawny cat roared, but suddenly his voice was hushed. ■ ;

OUR BOARDING HOUSE

CmiGRATULA-Te ME, N6dVe^ r 3>OJk ft'p A y AAjy^ mepHew ; I pid gdiJc Atf*iTio*i -MY First solo fuoYT 4 ■ TOPAV AT TWr AIRPORT * f Ee ,AP , OAICLE I? S -*• He’s ' I’m 60UJ6 AMBROSE r A MA/J T < BEHIUP ~lU' l-ToTry a parachute JJ OF VOUR nears ( march of PROORES? ■ '.S'. to—.' L ta.mtW.cw.

Hr ( WEtP, > TiAERE-’S MO lATCH I l __^3

By Edgar Rice Burroughs

Tarzan saw the great head lower and flatten out, the body crouch and the long tail quiver, as the beast slunk cautiously toward the tree* upon the opposite side. Immediately Tarzan was alert. He lilted his head and sniffed the slow jungle breeze. What was it that attracted Numa’s attention and taken him, soft-footed and silent, away from the scene of his discomfiture? Tarzan followed.

-JULY 17,

—By Alien,

—By Blosser

—By Crane

—By Small

—By Cowan