Indianapolis Times, Indianapolis, Marion County, 25 February 1937 — Page 26

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THURSDAY, FEB. 25, 1937 By Williams FLAPPER FANNY By Sylvia

THE INDIANAPOLIS TIMES | OUT OUR WAY

PAGE 26

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BEGIN HERE TODAY Daphne Brett, good-looking, successful young New York advertising executive, decided to rent the beautiful Connecticut estate her father left her when he was killed in a hunting accident. She needs the money after five years of providing for the education of her younger sister, Jennifer, who has just finished college. Daphne spends a day housecleaning at the estate preparatory to showing it. She is almost forced into renting to an undesirable family when an attractive young man she has never seen before hops over the garden wall, asks for a bit of lunch, and later comes to her rescue, offering to rent it himself. NOW GO ON WITH THE STORY

CHAPTER TWO

APHNE BRETT saw $1200 float out her window and was relieved. Not but what she would feel very differently when the Snyders departed and she was once more faced with the inescapable truth that she needed it bacly. For the time, she permitted herself the luxury of that relicf and was glad the shadows of late afternoon filled the drawing-room when she introduced “Mr. Van Dusen’— the name had been the first to spring to her mind—to the Snyders. He might not have appeared in a brighter light so perfectly turned out in the riding clothes he wore with careless grace. “A hundred and fifty a month!” Mrs. Snyder fluffed the lace of her jabot. “Well, I'm sure I don't blame you, Miss Brett.” Daphne's unexpected visitor, looking up from his teacup, glanced at Daphne and addressed himself with surprise-tinged tones. “Look here, how stupid of me! You're the people who wanted the place before I saw it?” “Oh, no,” Daphne said quickly. “That was . . . er . . . someone else who wanted to buy. Mr. and Mrs. Snyder wanted to rent for a year but I... I told them I had promised to give you time to make up your mind.” ” un " HERE was no mistaking the appeal in her face, or the meaning of her words. The dark eyes and the bright blue eyes traveled at the same moment to the youngest Snyder and her fruitless effort to prevent a dab of sandwich filling from slipping down her pinafore with awful certainty to the handsome brocade of the sofa. That settled it. Blue eyes addressed himself to Mrs. Snyder with the charm of a diplomatic attache. “If I were not so selfish, I should make the nowimpossible gesture of turning the place over to a lady who would lend it greater grace.” . Mrs. Snyder adjusted her laces and her smile. “Did you hear that, Henry?” she asked her husband and returned to more flattering attention. “Tell me,” she said, “are you by any chance related to the South Orange Van Dusens?”

» n n he said that he wasn't. “We're Virginians,” he said. first introduction to Connecticut and I mean to make the most of it.” “I'm sure you will,” she said graciously. ‘Come along, Henry, we've got to be getting back. Anyway,

we've enjoyed the visit, Miss Brett, |

and I'm pleased to have met you, Mr. Van Dusen. Shall I tell the South Orange that is, my friends, who you are?” “By all means,” he replied with a quick and dazzling smile. “I'm Derek Van Dusen.” Daphne walked to the road where the Snyders had left their car, saw them off with a mutual exchange of goodbys and hoped that Prunella was, by now, in the drawing room where the combination of her mother's finest silver and the presence of an unknown young man did not make for a feeling of security. A man who would ask for a handout at the back door, turn up in strange circumstances four hours later and slip with such suspicious ease into the role offered him of an impostor, had all the earmarks of being a dangerous character. Why was he hanging around her douse all day? He didn’t look like a tramp certainly with his fine clothes and manners, but, after all, the depression had turned up strange types. Daphne hastened her foot-

steps. » = ” E was, she was relieved to see, sitting in Tom Brett's chair turning the pages of a magazine when she entered. “Well,” he said, looking up at her prightly and rising, “shall we estimate the damage?” “There has been some, hasn't there?” she answered ruefully, and noted, surreptitiously, that all the silver seemed to be on the tray. It hurt her eyes to see the spreading grease spot on the gold brocade, the jagged scratch on the satiny surface of the mahogany table. The crumbs didn't matter nor the broken glass. Her slender finger traced a zigzag on the table and found a coinpanion in the finger that marked her gesture. “It will be easy to fix that,” he said and for the first time a feeling of gratitude stirred Daphne. “I ought to ask you questions,” she said when they both sat down. “I ought to say ‘thank you'.” “Forget it,’ he said. “Mind if I smoke?” ” » ”n APHNE shook her head and watched the practiced way in which he filled the bowl, tamped down the tobacco and applied the match. No fumbling gestures. She liked that. He drew on the pipe for a moment and then: “Shoot.” “Shoot?” Daphne had forgotten what she was going to say. “Questions,” he answered briefly. “Let's have them. Or shall I start?” Daphne was startled and annoyed. Why should he question her? “Did you want to rent to those people?” “No, I did not!” “Just as I surmised,” he said. “But I don’t understand . .."” He paid no, attention. “However, you should have, shouldn’t you?” Daphne swished cold tea around in her cup before answering. “No, not really,” she said and was elaborately casual, No need to tell this stranger her business. “Good! I feel better about it now.” He didn’t believe her but Daphne couldn't have guessed that. Or that he knew that a fragile girl like her-

sel did not indulge in the kind of

work she had been doing when he had mistaken her for a maid, unless she was pretty hard up. Nor did the gesture of serving tea to the Snyders escape him. " n ” * OU did a very fine job of helping me,” she said and wondered how she could invite him to 0. “Oh, the Van Dusens—the Virginia Van Dusens, not the South Orange Van Dusens, mind you—go about constantly, rescuing ladies in aistress with the greatest of ease.” “Yes, I noticed that,” she said. “I mean the ease. What else do you do when you just ‘go about’?” “Contemplate the cosmos,” he said pleasantly. “That's approximately what I thought,” she said pleasantly. “Tell me what else you thought,” he encouraged. “Were the scrambled eggs to the taste of the Van Dusens?” she asked pointedly. “Excellent,” he said graciously. “Plentious and fresh but, my dear girl, no Worchestershire seasoning!” “An oversight,” Daphne said with a fine edge of sarcasm. “The next time you come to lunch, do let us know beforehand.” “I will,” he promised. about tomorrow?”

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* OMORROW,” Daphne said coldly, “I am not entertaining. I'm a working girl. I shall be back in New York at my job.” The information slipped out. She didn’t want him to know that she would not be there. If he were a prowler . . Perhaps he was a gentleman thief . . . Perhaps he was . . . She stopped thinking gnd said sternly: “Much as the country and the open

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road appeal to me, it's a luxury I can’t afford.” “I can't either,” sighed. Daphne's suspicions were immediately confirmed in her mind. “I see,” she said, conveying nothing. “I, too, have a job in the city but I shall forget its confinement when I return to this peaceful loveliness each night.” Daphne sat up very straight. Oh, why had she told him that she was not to be here? “That's our arrangement, it?” he inquired easily. “At a hundred and fifty a month?” Her words had a smart sting. “Certainly. I said I agreed to your terms. I'd like to take it over at once for occupancy until October first.” ” ” n

T rather took Daphne’s breath away. It had possibilities of also taking away her problem. Against her better judgment, she threw discretion to the winds. “Would you,” she asked, leaning forward so he saw the hope in her dark eyes, “would you really like to rent Brett Hall?” “I thought it was all settled,” he answered calmly. “Then . .. then it is.” “You’ll want references, of course.” “Of course,” she said, wishing she had thought of it first. “Unfortunately they'll prove that my name isn’t Van Dusen. It isn’t even Derek. It's Smith,” he said, looking at her reproachfully. “How could you have missed it?” Daphne permitted herself a smile. “It was too obvious, which you are not,” she said.

(To Be Continued)

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Daily Short Story

COUP DE GRACE—By William De Lisle

LIFF BLAKE, after seeing his cattle herded into the corral at the railroad station, turned to his foreman. “You take charge of the loading, Monte. I'm going home.” It was an hour before sundown when he mounted his pony and left the station. Ahead of him, was a 10-mile ride to his ranch. Two miles were covered—three, four. He was passing through a belt ot sage brush when, away to the right, his quick eye caught sight of something moving—a cougar. His right hand gripped the butt of his rifle, which was slung in a saddle-holster. He pulled the pony to a halt, dropped to the ground, and almost simultaneously fired. His bullet hit

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made off. ” ” n LAKE fired again, but a flick of dust a yard to the left of the animal told him he had missed. He cursed, jerked the smoking shell out ¢ the rifle breech, felt in his pocket, found one more cartridge, and loaded. Then, mounting the pony, he cans tered toward where the cougar had disappeared. He intended to get it. He wanted the bounty. Besides, he had a strong dislike for people who left wounded game out on the desert to die slowly and painfully. But he would have to hurry—it was getting dusk, and soon he would no longer be able to see. He broke into a gallop and bent over the pony’s shoulder, peering for tracks. They led him through the brush—blind, treacherous country. He kicked the pony’s ribs with his heels, and went on faster and faster. Then, suddenly, he shouted a frantic “whoa!” and reined in with all his strength. He had come out on the lip of a gulch, more than 20 feet deep. Stung by the bit, the horse snorted, propped wildly with its forelegs, slithered to the edge of the gully, and fell over sidewise. .. . ” ” n HEN Blake came to his senses, he was lying on the stones at the bottom of the gulch, with the pony across his right leg. The pony was dead, its neck broken. As for Blake himself, he felt as though every bone in his body was broken, and his head throbbed painfully. Only a narrow slit of lemon-colored afterglow now showed in the west. In a few minutes, it would be dark. Blake stirred cautiously, to ascertain the extent of his injuries. Both arms seemed to be all right, and also his left leg. The pony must have broken his fall. He wondered about his right leg, the one that lay under the animal. He pulled it very gently. A sudden, excruciating pain shot up the limb. Blake dropped back with a moan and lost consciousness again. When he opened his eyes again, the stars were out. A pale silver glow in the east presaged the rising of the moon. 2 ” ” HE pain in his leg reminded Blake poignantly of his desperate predicament. He could not move, and he was out in the middle of an unpeopled waste, beyond hailing distance of the nearest trail. His own boys would never think of searching for him here. He was hopelessly trapped. Slow death cn the desert! Blake, born and raised in this lonely country, had known of many such cases, and he wondered now how those other men kad faced the long, last hours. Nobly or ignobly? Nobly for the most part, he thought. Well—he, too, would die game. He would write something in his notebook, some words of farewell to his friends. He felt in his hip pocket for the book, but could not find it. It must have dropped out as he fell. n ” ” S he felt among the boulders about him, his hand touched steel—his rifle barrel! He drew the weapon to him, and examined it. It seemed to be undamaged, and there was still one cartridge left in it. One was enough—all he needed! There need be no eternity of waiting, no long hours of thirst and starvation and suffering under 3) burning sun. Release could come a

would take the muzzle of the rifle in his teeth, press the trigger with his toe, and— Putting the weapon down, he crooked his free leg and began to unlace the boot. He stopped suddenly as a sound a few yards to his right came to his ears. He looked around, scarcely breathing. “Who's there!” he shouted. There was no answer. The moon had now risen above a distant ridge, and was flooding the gully with milky light. Blake, peering in the direction from which the sound had come, made out a dark blot against the far side of the gulch. As he watched, the dark form moved, seeming to flounder. and then lay still again. “The cougar!” Blake muttered. “Dying by inches.” The cougar struggled and floundered again. Biake set his teeth. Pcor fellow! If only he had another cartridge, he'd put it out of its misery. ” n n

HE continued unlacing his boot. The cougar growled twice, brokenly. Blake kicked the loosened boot away, peeled off his sock to give his big toe free play, and picked up the rifle. Goodby life! It had been good. There were few regrets. His debts were all paid: nobody— The cougar emitted another growl, drawn out and quivering. Blake's hand dropped slowly. A sudden desire to hold up his head to the end seized Blake—a quixotic impulse to pay his last debt. Yes, he would die like a man! Unmindful of the agony his leg caused him, he twisted himself around and brought the butt of his rifle to his shoulder, The moonlight washed the opposite wall of the gulch. He could now see the dark blot of the cougar quite plainly. He took aim and pressed the trigger. A jet of flame spurted, the crash of the report roared up the gully and went echoing away. The cougar jerked itself in the air, fell, and lay still. Blake sank back among the stones, shaken with hysterical laughter. ” ” 2

Sou one had him by the shoulder, was shaking him. Blake opened his eyes and stared incredulously into the anxious, moonlit face of his foreman, “We had been searching f the last three hous,” Fron foray said. “When I found out you never got home, I knew something must've happened. I picked up your trail in the moonlight, a little while ago. You sure gave me a scare, boss.” Relief, overwhelming and inexpressible, swept through Blake like a flood. Life, glorious life, was his once more! “But—but what made you look for my trail out here?” he asked. “I heard a rifle shot, boss,” said the foreman.

THE END

(Copyright, 1937, by Unite Syndicate, Inc.) § Favs

The characters in this story are fictitious. ema mais

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