The Syracuse Journal, Volume 7, Number 13, Syracuse, Kosciusko County, 23 July 1914 — Page 4

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B. &0. Time I able. EAST WEST No. 16 —12:44p.tn No. 17—6:19 a. in No. 8— 2:05 p. m No. 15 —4:40 a. in No. 18— 7:55 p. m No. 11—2:20p. m No. 6— 8:45 p.m No. 7—1:45 P- 111 No. 14 due at 1:03, No. 10 due atl 1:00 and No. 12, due at 9:iß. Teeth filled, crowned and extracted absolutely without pain. Dr. Cunningham, Goshen. —Store your houshold goods at i Beckmans.

The taE: OF iJEWME BKK By MARY ROBERTS RINEHART Copyright. 1913, by the Bobb*>Merrill Company "air. Bronson offered to put up the money, and 1 agreed. The flood came just then and was considerable help. It made a good setting. 1 went to my city editor and got an assignment to interview Ladley about this play of his. Then Bronson and I went together to see the Ladleys on Sunday morning. and as they needed money they agreed. But Ladley insisted on SSO a week extra if he had to go to jail. We promised 1 it, but we did not intend to let things go s« far as that. “in the Ladleys' room that Sunday morning we worked it all out. The hardest thing was to get Jennie Brice’s consent, but she agreed finally. We arranged a list of clews to be left around, and Ladley was to go out in V>e night and to be heard coming back. I told him to quarrel with his wife that afternoon, although 1 don’t believe they needed to be asked to do it —and 1 suggested also the shoe or slipper to be found floating around.” “Just a moment.” said Mr. Holcombe, busy with his notebook. “Did you suggest the onyx clock?” “No, no clock was mentioned. The —the clock has puzzled me.” “The towel’:” “Yes. 1 said no murder was complete without blood, but he kicked on that—said he didn’t mind the rest, but he’d be hanged if he was going to slash himself. But. as it happened, he cut his wrist while cutting the boat loose, and so we had the towel.” “Pillow slip?” asked Mr. Holcombe. “Well, no. There was nothing said about a pillowslip. EHdn’t he say he burned it accidentally?” “So he claimed." Mr. Holcombe made another entry in his book. “Then 1 said every murder had a weapon. He was to have a pistol at first, but none of us owned one. Mrs Ladley undertook to get a knife from Mrs. Pitman’s kitchen and to leave it around, not in full view, but where it could be found.” “A broken knife?” * “No; just a knife.” “He was to throw the knife into the water?” "That was not arranged. 1 only gave him a general outline. He was to add any interesting details that might occur to him. The idea, of course, was to give the police plenty to work on and just when they theight they had it all and when the theater had bad a lot of booming •and 1 had got a good story, to produce Jennie Brice safe and well. We were not to appear in it at all. It would have worked perfectly, but we forgot to count on one thing—Jennie Brice hated her husband." “Not really hated him!” cried Lida. “Hated him! She is letting him hang. She could save him by coming forward now. and she won’t do it. She is hiding so he will go to the galI lows.” There was a pause at that. It seem ed too incredible, too inhuman. “Then early that Monday morning you smuggled Jennie Brice out of the city?” “Yes; that was the only thing we bungled. We fixed the hour a little : too late, and 1 was seen by Miss Harvey’s uncle walking across the bridge . with a woman.” “Why did you meet her openly and i take her to the train?” Mr. Howell bent forward and smiled across at the little man. “One of your own axioms, sir,” he said. "Do the natural thing; upset the customary or- j der of events as little as possible. Jen- i nie Brice went to the train because ' . that was where she wanted to go. But as Ladley was to protest that his wife had left town, and as the police would be searching for a solitary woman, I went with her. We went in a leisurely manner. I bought her a magazine and a morning paper, asked the conductor to fix her window, and. in general, acted the devoted husband seeing his wife off on a trip. I even”—he smiled—“l even promised to feed the canary.” Lida took her hands away. “Did you kiss her goodby?” she demanded. “Not even a chastb salute,” he said. , His spirits were rising. It was. as ofi ten happens, as if the mere confession removed the guilt. I have seen little boys who have broken a window show the same relief after telling about it. “For a day or two Bronson and I sat back, enjoying the stir up. , turned out as we had expected. Busi- « ness boomed at the theater. I got a ' good story, and some few kind words * from my city editor. Then—the ex- ; plosion came. 1 got a letter from Jen- ' nie Brice saying she was going away. and that we need not try to find her. I went to Horner, but I had lost track of her completely. Even then, we did ! not believe things so bad as they turned out to be. We thought she was giving us a bad time, but that she would show up. j “Ladley was in a blue funk for a i time. Bronson and I went to him. We i told him how the thing had slipped ) up. We didn’t w’ant to go to the police and confess if we could help it. Finally he agreed to stick it out until she was found, at SIOO a week. It took J all we could beg, borrow and steal. But now—we have to come out with • the story anyhow.” f Mr. Holcombe sat up and closed his notebook with a snap. “I’m not so sure of that.” he said impressively. “I I wonder if you realize, young man. that, t having provided a perfect defense for I this, man Ladiey. jou provided him | / 1 ’

I. i r — — | - - - “She is hiding so he will go to the gallows.” with every possible inducement to make away with his wife. Secure in your coming forward at the last minute and confessing the hoax to save him, was there anything he might not have dared with impunity?” “But I tell you 1 took Jennie Brice out of town on Monday morning.” “Did you?” asked Holcombe sternly. | But at that, the schoolteacher; having come home and found old Isaac sound asleep in her cozy corner, set up such a screaming for the police that our meeting broke up. Nor would Mr. Holcombe explain any fui"ther.

CHAPTER XIV. R. HOLCOMBE was up very early the next morning. 1, heard him moving around at 5 o’clock, and at 6 he bang-

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ed at my door and demanded to know at what time the neighborhood rose. He had been up for an hour and there were no signs of life. He was more ’. cheerful after he had a cup of coffee, commented on Lida’s beauty and said . that Howell was a lucky chap. | '■ '‘That is what worries me. Mr. Hol- | combe.” I said. “1 am helping the af-| fair along and—what if it turns out badly?" He looked at me over his glasses. “It Isn’t likely to turn out badly.” he said. “I have never married. Mi’s. Pitman, and I have missed a great deal out of life.” “Perhaps you’re better off. If you , had married and lost your wife”— I was thinking of Mr. Pitman. “Not at all,” he said with emphasis. : “It’s better to have married and lost than never to have married at all. Ev- I ery man needs, a good woman, and it doesn’t matter how old he is. The older he is the more he needs her. 1 am nearly sixty.” I was rather startled, and I almost dropped the fried potatoes. But the next moment he had got out his notebook and was going over the items again. “Pillowslip,” he said, “knife, broken; onyx clock—wouldn’t think so much of the clock if he hadn't been so damnably anxious to hide the key, the discrepancy in time as revealed by the trial—yes, it is as clear as a belt Mrs. Pitman, does that Maguire woman next door sleep all day?” “She’s up now.” I said, looking out the window. He was in the hall in a moment, only to come to the door later, hat in hand. “Is she the only other woman on the street who keeps boarders?” “She’s the only woman who doesn’t,” I snapped. “She’ll keep anything that doesn’t belong to her—except boarders.” “Ah!” He lighted his corncob pipe and stood puffing at it and watching me. He made me uneasy. I thought he was going to continue the subject of every man needing a wife. But when he spoke he w’as back to the crime again: “Did you ever work a typewriter?” he asked. What with the surprise, I was a little sharp. “I don’t play any instrument except an egg beater.” I replied shortly, and went on clearing the table. “I wonder—do you remember about the village idiot and the horse? But of course you do. Mrs. Pitman, you are a woman of imagination. Don’t you think you could be Alice Murray for a few moments? Now think—you are a stenographer with theatrical ambitions. You meet an actor and you fall in love with him and be with you.” i “That’s hard to imagine, that last.” “Not so hard.” he said gently. “Now the actor is going to put you on the i stage, perhaps in this new play, and i some day he is going to marry you.” I “Is that what he promised the girl?” i “According to some letters her moth- ■ er found, yes. The actor is married, but he tells you he will divorce the wife. You are to wait for him, and la the meantime he wants you near him—away from the office, where other men are apt to come in with letters to be typed and to chaff you. You are a j pretty girl.” “It isn’t necessary to overwork my ’ imagination." I said, with a little bit- i terness. 1 had been a pretty girl, but I work and worry—- “ Now you are going to New York very soon, and in the meantime you have cut yourself off from all your people. You have no one but this man. What would you do? Where would you go?” “How old was the girl?” “Nineteen.” “I think,” I said slowly, “ttort if I were nineteen and in love with a man and hiding I would hide as near him as possible. I’d be likely to get a window that could see his going out and coming in—a place so near that he could come often to see me.” “Bravo!” he exclaimed. “Os course, with your present wisdom and experience, you would do nothing so foolish. But this girl was in her teens. She was not very far away, for he probably saw her that Sunday afternoon, when he was out for two hours. And as the going was slow that day and he had much to tell and explain 1, figure she was not far .off, probably In

this very neighborhood?* ~ During the remainder of that morning I saw Mr. Holcombe at intervals going from house to house. Finally he came back, flushed and excited. “I found the house.” he said, wiping his glasses. “She was there, all right, not so close as we had thought, but ; as close as she could get” “And can you trace her?” I asked. His face changed and saddened. : “Poor child!” he said. “She is dead. I Mrs. Pitman!” “Not she—at Sewickley!” “No,” he said patiently. “That was Jennie Brice.” “But-Mr. Howell”— “Mr. Howell is a young ass,” he said with irritation. “He did not take Jennie Brice out of the city that morning. He took Alice Murray in Jennie Brice s clothing, and veiled.” Well, that is five years ago. Five times since then the Allegheny river, I from being a mild and inoffensive stream, carrying a few boats and a great deal of sewage, has become a : raging destroyer and has tilled our hearts with fear and our cellars with mud. A few days ago, as 1 said at the be ginning, we found Peter’s body float ing in the cellar, and as soon as the yaA was dry 1 buried him. He had grown fat and lazy, but I shall miss ; him. Yesterday a riverman fell off a barge along the water front and was drown ed. They dragged the river for his body, but they did not find him. But ■ they found something—an onyx clock, with the tattered remnant of a muslin ' pillowslip wrapped around it. It only bore out the story as we had known it for five years. The Murray girl had lived long enough to make a statement to the police. although Mr. Holcombe only learned this later. On the statement being shown to Ladley in the jail and his learning of the girl’s death, he collapsed. He confessed before he was hanged, and his confession, briefly, was like this: He had met the Murray girl in connection with the typing of his play, and had fallen in love with her. He had never cared for bis wife, and would have been glad to get rid oX her in any way possible. He had not intended to kill her, however. He had planned to elope with the Murray girl, and, awaiting an opportunity, had persuaded her to leave home and to take a room near my house. Here be had visited her daily, while his wife was at the theater. They had planned to go to New York together on Monday. March 5. On Sunday, the 4th. however. Mr. Bronson and Mr Howell had made their curious proposition. When he accepted, Philip Ladley maintained that he , meant only to carry ouythe plan as suggested. But the tei*tation was too strong for him. That night, while his wife slept, he had strangled her. I believe he was frantic with fear, after he had done it. Then it occurred to him that if he made the body unrecognizable he would be safe enough. On that quiet Sunday night, when Mr. Reynolds reported all peaceful in the Ladley room he had cut off the poor wretch’s head apd had tied it up in a pillowslip weighted with my onyx clock! It is a curious fact about the case that the scar which his wife incurred to enable her to marry him was the means of bis undoing. He insisted, and I believe he was telling the truth, that he did not know of the scar—that is, his wife had never told him of it and had been able to conceal it He thought she had probably used paraffin in some way. In his final statement, written with great care and no little literary finish, he told the story in detail: of arrang ing the clews as Mr. Howell and Mr. Bronson had suggested; of going out in the boat with the body, covered with a fur coat, in the bottom of the skiff; of throwing it into the current above the Ninth street bridge, and of seeing the fur coat fall from the boat and carried beyond his reach; of disposing of the head near the Seventh street bridge; of going to a drug store, as per the Howell instructions and of coming home at 4 o’clock to find me at the head of the stairs. Several points of confusion remained. One had been caused by Temple Hope’s refusal to admit that the dress and hat that figured in the case were to be used by her the next week at the theater. Mr. Ladley insisted that this was the case and that on that Sunday afternoon his wife had requested him to take them to Miss Hope; that they had quarreled as to whether they should be packed in a box or in the brown valise, and that he had visited Alice Murray instead. It was on the way there that the idea of finally getting rid of Jennie Brice came to him. And a way—using the blaek and white striped dress of the dispute. Another point of confusion had been the dismantling of his room that Monday night, some time between the visit of Temple Hope and the return of Mr. Holcombe. This was to obtain the scrap of paper containing the list of clews as suggested by Mr. Howell, a clew that might have brought about a premature discovery of the so called hoax. To the girl he had told nothing of his plan. But he had she was to leave town on an early train the next morning, going as his wife; that he wished her to wear the black and * white dress and hat for reasons that he would explain later and to be veiled heavy: that to the young man who would put her on the train and who had seen Jennie Brice only once she was to be Jennie Brice; to say as little as possible and not to raise her veil. Her further instructions were simpleto go to the place at Horner where Jennie Brice had planned to go, but to use the name of Bellows there. And after she had been there for a day or two to go as quietly as possible to New York. He gave her the address of a boarding house where he could write her and where he would join her later. He reasoned in this way: That as Alice Murray was to impersonate Jennie Brice and Jennie Brice hiding from her husband she would naturally discard her name The name Bellows had been hers by a previous marriage, and she might easily resume it Thus to establish his innocence he had not only the evidence of Howell and Bronson that the whole thing was

hoax; lie had the evidence of TTowell that he had started Jennie Brice to Horner that Monday morning, that she | had reached Horner, bad there assumI ed an incognito, as Mr. Pitman would say. and had later disappeared from I there, maliciously concealing herself to work his undoing. In all probability he would have gone i free, the richer by SIOO for each i week of his imprisonment, but for I two things. The flood, which had brought opportunity to fffs door, had ' brought Mr. Holcombe to feed Peter, j the dog. And the same flood, which I w 1 'it' 1 \ 1 © 'Wilk if €>«>«s•. —x ’ He Was Frantic With Fear. i should have carried the headless body I as far as Cairo or even farther on down ■ the Mississippi, had rejected it in an eddy below a clay bluff at Sewickley. Well, it is all over now. Mr. Ladley is dead, and Alice Murray, and even Peter lies in the yard. Mr. Reynolds made a small wooden cross over Peter’s grave aud carved “Till xve meet ' again” on it I daresay the n®xt flood i will find it in Molly Maguire’s kitchen. Mr. Howell and Lida are married. Mr. Howell inherited some money, 1 believe, and what with that and Lida declaring she would either marry him tn a church or ruu off to Steubenville, 0., Alma had to consent. 1 went to the wedding and stood near the door, while Alma swept in, in lavender chiffon and rose point lace. She has not improved with age. has Alma. But Lida—Lida—l wanted to ruu out and claim her, my more than child. I sat down aud covered my face, and from the pew behind me some one leaned over and patted my shoulder. “Miss Bess," old Isaac said gently, “don’t take on. Miss Bess!” He came the next day and brought me some lilies from the bride’s bouquet that she had sent me and a bottle of champagne from the wedding supper. I had not tasted champagne for twenty years! That is ali of the story. On summer afternoons sometimes when the house Is hot Igo to the park and sit 1 used to take Peter, but now he is dead. I like to see Lida’s little boy. The nurse knows me by sight and lets me talk to the child. He can say “Peter” quite plainly. But he does not call Alma “grandmother." The nurse says she does not like it. He calls her “Nana.” Lida does not forget me. The other day she brought me, with apologies, the chiffon gown her mother had worn at ber wedding. Alma had never worn it but once, and now she was too stout for it. 1 took it. lam not proud, and I should like Molly Maguire to see it. Mr. Holcombe asked me last night to marry him. He says he needs me. and that 1 need him. 1 am a lonely woman and getting old. and I’m tired of watching the gas meter, and besides, with Peter dead. I need a man in the house all the time. The flood district is none too orderly. Besides, when 1 have a wedding dress laid away and a bottle of good wine it seems a pity not to use them. 1 think I shall do it. THE END. —There may be some damage to the wheat crop but there is going to be enough of the good, old Indiana product to make GERBELLE and NEVER FAIL for another year, and the quality will be better than ever. —GERBLELE and NEVER FAIL Flour are the best at any price. To pay more is extravagant, to pay less is not true economy. —Room for furniture storage at Beckmans. —The Mexican product problem is difficult to solve, but the flour problem is easy—GERBELLE and NEVER FAIL. The Journal will pay your way to the chautauqua. Read our offer in another part of the paper. —Underwear for every member of the family. A. W. Strieby & Son. —Get an “Innershu” reliner. Guaranteed against punctures. Lepper Garage. —Pleasing patterns in 8-cent wallpaper at the Quality Drug Store. J. Wl ROTHENBERGER : Undertaker : II SYRACUSE, IND.

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