Jasper County Democrat, Volume 17, Number 8, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 2 May 1914 — The Hollow of Her Hand [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

The Hollow of Her Hand

SYNOPSIS. CHAPTER I—Challis Wrandall is fount murdered in a road house near NeW York. Mrs. Wrandall is summoned from the city and identifies the body. A young woman who accompanied Wrandall to the inn and subsequently disappeared Is suspected. Wrandall, it appears, had led a gay life and neglected hfs wife. Mrs. Wrandall starts back for New York in an auto during a blinding snow storm. CHAPTER ll—On the way she meets a young woman in the road who proves to be the Woman who killed Wrandall. FeelJug that the girl had done her a service in ridding her of the man who. though 6pe loved him deeply, had caused her great sorrow, Mrs. Wrandall determines to shield her and takes her to her own home. CHAPTER TlT—Mrs. Wrandall hears the story of Hetty Castleton's life, except that portion that relates to Wrandall. The story of the tragedv she forbids the girl ever to tell her. She offers Hetty a home, friendship and security from peril on account of the tragedy. / CHAPTER TV—Mrs. Sara Wrandall and Hetty attend the funeral of Challis Wrandall at the home of his parents. Sara had always been treated as an interloper by the snobbish Wrandall family, but the tragedy seems to draw them closer together.

CHAPTER V. Discussing a Sister-in-Law. “You remember my sister-in-law, don’t you, Brandy?" was the question that Leslie Wrandall put to a friend one afternoon, as they sat drearily in a window of one of the fashionable uptown clubs, a little more than a year after the events described in the foregoing chapters. Drearily, I have said, for the reason that it was Sunday, and raining at that. “I met Mrs. Wrandall a few years ago in Rome,” said his companion, renewing interest in a conversation that had died some time, before of its own exhaustion. "She’s most attractive. I saw her but once, I think it was at somebody’s fete?’ “She’s returning to New York the end of the month,’’ said Leslie. “Been abroad for over a year. She had a villa at Nice this winter.” “I remember her quite well. I was of an age then to be particularly sensitive to female loveliness. If I'd been staying on in Rome,, I should have screwed up the courage. I’m sure, to have asked her to sit for me.” Brandon Booth was of an old Philadelphia family: an old and wealthy family. Both views considered, he was qualified to walk hand in glove with the fastidious Wrandalls. Leslie’s mother was charmed with., him because she was also the mother, of Vivian. The fact that he went in for portrait painting and sfeemed averse to subsisting on the generosity of his father, preferring to live by his talent, in no way operated against him, so far as Mrs. Wrandall was concerned. That was his lookout, not hers; if he elected to that sort of thing, all well and good. He could afford to be eccentric; there remained, in the perspective he scorned, the bulk of a huge fortune to offset whatever idiosyncrasies he might choose to cultivate. Some day, in spite of himself, she contended serenely, he would be very, very rich. What could be more desirable than fame, family and fortune all heaped together and thrust upon one exceedingly interesting and handsome young man? He had been the pupil of celebrated draftsmen and painters in Europe, and had exhibited a sincerity of purpose that was surprising, all things considered. The mere fact that he was not obliged to paint in order to obtain a living was sufficient cause for wonder among the artists he met and studied with or under. His studio in New York was not a fashionable resting place. It was a workshop. You could have tea there, of course, and you were sure to meet people you knew and liked, but it was quite as much of a workshop as any you could mention. He was not a dabbler in art, not a mere dauber of pigments: he was an artist.

Booth was thirty—perhaps a year or two older; tall, dark and good looking. The air of the thoroughbred marked him. He did not affect loose, flowing cravats and baggy trousers, nor was he careless about his fingernails. He wae simply the ordinary, every-day sort of chap you would meet ■in Fifth avenue during parade hours, and you would take a second look at him because of his face and manner but not on account of his dress. Some of his ancestors came over ahead of the Mayflower, but he did not gloat. Leslie Wrandall was his closest friend and harshest critic. It didn’t,, really matter to Booth what Leslie said of his paintings: he quite understood that he didn’t know anything about them. “When does Mrs. Wrandall return?" asked the painter, after a long period of silence spent in contemplation of the gleaming pavement beyond the club’s window. “That’s queer,” said Leslie, looking up. “I was thinking of Sara myself.

by George Barr M c Cutcheon

Author of “Grau stark-,’ i “Truxton. Kin&fetc. i iLLUsnamoNS ellswcrthtdung COPYRIGHT-1912-BY GECRGE BARR M c CUTCHEfIB COPYRIGHT,I9I2. BY ~~ DODD. MEAD COMTAMY

She' sails next week. Tve had a letter asking me to open her house in the country. Her place is about two miles from father’s. It hasn’t been opened in two years. Her father built it fifteen or twenty years ago, and left it to her when he died. She and Challis spent several summers there." “Vivian took me through it one afternoon last summer." “It must have been quite as much of a novelty to her as it was to you, old chap,” said Leslie gloomily. “What do you mean?" "Vivian’s a bit of a snob. She never liked the place because old man Gooch built it out of worsteds. She never went there.” “But the old man’s been dead for years." “That doesn’t matter. The fact is, Vivian didn’t quite take to Sara until after—well, until after Challis died. We’re dreadful snobs, Brandy, the whole lot of us. Sara was quite good enough for a much better man than my brother. She really couldn’t help the worsteds, you know. I’m very fond of her, and always have been. We’re pals. ’Gad, it was a fearful slap at the home folks when Challis justified Sara by getting snuffed out the way he did.” Booth made an attempt to change the subject, but Wrandall got back to it. “Since then we’ve all been exceedingly sweet on Sara. Not because we want to be, mind you, but because

we’re afraid ehe’ll marry some chap who wouldn’t be acceptable to us.” “I should consider that a very neat way out of it,” said Booth coldly. “Not at all. You see, Challis was fond of Sara, in spite of everything. He left a will and under it she came in for all he had. As that includes a third interest in our extremely refined and irreproachable business, it would be a deuce of a trick on us if she married one of the common people and set him up amongst us, willy-nilly. We don’t want strange bedfellows. We’re too snug—and I might say, too smug. Down in her heart mother ie saying to herself it would be just like Sara to jget even with us by doing just that sort of a trick. Of course Sara is rich enough without accepting a sou under the will, but she’s a canny person. She hasn’t handed it back to us on a silver platter, with thanks; still, on the other hand, she refuses to meddle. She makes us feel pretty small. She won t sell out to us. She just sits tight. That’s what gets under the skin with mother.” “I wouldn’t say that, Les, if I were in your place.” “It is a rather priggish thing to say, isn’t it?” i “Rather.” ? ' “You see, I’m the only one who really took sides with Sara. I forget myself sometimes. She was such a brick, all those years.” ( Booth was silent for a moment, noting the reflective look in his companion’s eyes. “I suppose the police haven’t given up the hope that sooner or later the — er —the woman will do something to give herself away,” said he. “They don’t take any stock in my theory that shte made way .with herself the same night. I was talking with the chief yesterday. He says that anyone who had wit to cover up her tracks as she did, is not the kind to make way with herself. Perhaps he’s right It sounds reasonable. ’Gad, I felt sorry for the poor girl they had up last spring. She went through the third degree, if evedfenyone did, but, by Jove, she came out* of it all right. The Ashtley girl, you remember. I’ve dreamed about that girl, Brandy, and what they put her through. It’s a sort of nightmare to me, even when I’m awake. Oh, they’ve questioned Others as well, but she was the only one to have the screws twisted in just that war ”

"Where is she now?" “She’s comfortable enough now. When I wrote to Sara about what she’d been through, she settled a neat bit of mqiiey on her, and shell never want for anything. She’e out west somewhere, with her mother and sisters. I tell you, Sara’s a wonder. She’s got a heart of gold.” “I look forward to meeting her, old num.** “I was with her for a few weeks this winter. In Nice, you know. Vivian stayed on for a week, but mother had to get to the baths. ’Gad, I believe she hated to go. Sara's got a most adorable girl staying with her. A daughter of Colonel Castleton, and she’s connected in some way with the Murgatroyds—old Lord Murgatroyd, you know. I think her mother was a niece of the old boy. Anyhow, mother and Vivian have taken a great fancy to her. That’s proof of the pudding." “I think Vivian mentioned a companion of some sort.” “You wouldn’t exactly call her a companion,” said Leslie. “She’s got money to burn, I take it. Quite keeps up with Sara in making it fly, and that’s saying a good deal for her resources. I think it’s a pose on her part, this calling herself a companion. An English joke, eh? As a matter of fact, she’s an old friend of Sara's and my brother’s too. Knew them in England. Most delightful girl. Oh, I say, old man, she’s the one for you to paint." ; Leslie waxed enthusiastic. “A type, a positive type. Never saw such eyes in all my life. Dammit, they haunt you. You dream about 'em.” lou seem to be hard hit,” said Booth indifferently. He was watching the man in the “slicker” through moody eyes. Oh, nothing like that,” disclaimed Leslie with unnecessary’ promptness. “But if I were given to that sort of thing, I’d be bowled over in a minute. Positively adorable face. If I thought you had it in you to paint a thing as it really is I’d commission you myself to do a miniature for me, just to have it around where I could pick it up when I and hold it between my hands, just as I’ve often wanted to hold the real thing.” Sara Wrandall returned to New York at the end of the month, 'and Leslie met her at the dock, as he did on an occasion fourteen months earlier. Then she came in on a fierce gale from the wintry Atlantic; this time the air was soft and balmy and sweet with the kindness of spring. It was May and the sea was blue, the land was green. Again she went to the small, exclusive hotel near the park, liter apartment was closed, the butler and his wife and all of their hastily recruited company being in the country, awaiting her arrival from town. Leslie attended to Everything. He lent his resourceful man servant and his motor to his lovely sister-in-law, and saw to it that his mother and Vivian sent flowers to the ship. Redmond Wrandall called at the hotel immediately after banking hours, kissed his daugh-ter-in-law, and delivered an ultimatum second-hand from the power at home: she was to come to dinner and bring Miss Castleton. A little quiet family dinner. know,-beLa jix- they v.ere all in mourning, he said in conclusion, vaguely realizing all the while that it really wasn’t necessary to supply the information, but, for the life of him, unable to think of anything else to say under the circumstances. Somehow it eeemed to him that while Sara was in black she was not in mourning in the same sense that the rest of them were. It seemed only right to acquaint her with the conditions in his household. And he knew that he deserved the scowl that Leslie bestowed upon him. Sara accepted, much to his surprise and gratification. He had been rather dubious about it. It would not have surprised him in the least if she had declined the invitation, feeling, as he did, that he had in a way come to her with a white flag or an olive branch or whatever it is that a combative force utilizes when it wants to surrender in the cause of humanity. As soon as they were alone Hetty turned to her friend. “Oh. Sara, can’t you go without me? Tell them that 1 am ill—suddenly ill. I—l1 —I don’t think it right or honorable of me to accept—” Sara shook her head, and the words died on the girl’s lips. "You must play the game, Hetty?’ “It’s—very hard,” murmured the other, her face very white and bleak. “I know, my dear,” said Sara gently. “If they should ever find out," gasped the girl, suddenly giving way: to the dread that had been lying dormant all these months. “They will never know the truth unless you choose to enlighten them,” said Sara, putting her arm about the girl’s shoulders and drawing her close. “You never cease to be wonderful, Sara —so very wonderful,” cried the girl, with a look of worship in her eyes. Sara regarded her in silence for a moment, reflecting. Then, with a swift rush of tears to her eyes, she cried fiercely: “You must never, never tell me all that happened, Hetty! You must not speak it with your own lips.” Hetty’s eyes grew dark with pain and Wonder. “That is the thing I can't understand in you, Sara,” she said slowly. “We must not epeak of it!’’ Hetty’s bosom heaved. “Speak of it!” she cried, absolute agony in her voice. “Have’ I not kept it lockted in my heart since that awful day—” . “Hush!” “I shall go mad if 1 cannot talk with you about—” “No, no! It is the forbidden subject! I know all that I should know—-

ail tnat i care to know. XV e have not said so much as this in months—in ages, it seems. Let sleeping dogs lie. We are better off, my dear. I could not touch your lips again." "I—l can’t bear the thought of that!” ' Kiss me now, Hetty." “I could die for you, Sara." cried Hetty, as she impulsively obeyed the command. “I mean that you shall live for me,” said Sara, smiling through her tears. "How Silly of me to cry. It must be the room we are in. These are the same rooms, dear, that you came to on the night we met. Ah, how old I feel!” "Old? You say that to me? I am ages and ages older than you,” cried Hetty, the color coming back to her soft cheeks. "You are twenty-three.” "And you are twenty-eight." Sara had a far-away look in her eyes. About your size and figure,” • d she, and Hetty did not comprebed. (TO BE CONTINUED.)

“You Must Play the Game, Hetty.”