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© Ben Ames Willams.
! Tron
SYNOPSIS
Barbara Sentry, seeking to sober up her
escort, Joliiste Boyd, on the way home from
a § Darly. YX him, and attracts the atten-
a policeman, whom the boy knocks
down. As he arrests him, Professor Brace
of Harvard comes to the reseue and drives
Barbara home. On the ay f ney see Bar-
bara's father driving from irection of
his effice at 12:45, but when he gets home
he tells his wife it is 11:15 and that he's
been playing bridge at the club. Next morn.
ing, while Barbara is telling her mother
about her adventure, an urgent phone call
comes from Mr. Sentry’s office after his de-
parture. Arriving home in the late after-
noon, Sentry reports his office has been
robbed and a Miss Wines, former temporary
employee, killed. The evening papers lurid-
ly confirm the story, and Sentry takes it
hard. Mary, elder daughter, is in love with
Neti Ray, young interne at the hospital
where she works.
CHAPTER II—Continued
a
Barbara was called to the tele-
phone, and Endle arrived and came
in to speak to them while Mary
made last preparations. Mrs. Lor-
an’s brother, Endle, had somehow
made a fortune in the last four or
five years, owned a blatantly large
motor yacht on which scandalous
parties were reported to occur, was
perfectly sure of his welcome every-
where; and he clapped Mr. Sentry
on the shoulder and said jocosely:
“Well, Sentry, a lot of free ad-
vertising, eh? Headlines! Produce
House Murder! You and Gus ought
to have a flock of sightseers tomor-
row. Better lay in a stock of ba-
nanas, eh? Sell 'em to people to
take home as souvenirs!”
Mary, in the hall, called, “I'm
ready, Mr. Endle.” They departed.
Mrs. Sentry said icily, “He and
Mrs. Loran are alike, aren’t they?"
And as Barbara returned from the
telephone, ‘“Who was it, Barbara?”
“Johnny Boyd!" Barbara was in-
dignant. ‘“He thought last night was
a joke, and he thought all this was
funny! I shan’t ever give him a date
again!”
“I suppose it will strike a lot of
people as a joke on us,” Mr. Sentry
agreed, “I'm glad father isn’t alive.
He was strong on the dignity of the
firm.”” And he reflected: “I'd better
run in and reassure mother. Care
to come, Ellen?” Old Mrs. Sentry
lived in solitary dignity in one of
the Back Bay hotels.
“I think not,” Mrs. Sentry de-
cided, but when Mrs, Furness
phoned presently to ask whether she
could bring Miss Glen over—‘‘She’s
so anxious to talk to Mr. Sentry
about this terrible crime!” —Mrs.
Sentry said: “I'm sorry. We're go-
ing out!” Others would be telephon-
ing. She and Mr. Sentry presently
departed in the limousine for town.
Barbara stayed at home. She was
reading the story in the paper again
when the doorbell rang. Nellie came
to say that a young man wished to
see her. ‘‘He asked for Mr. Sen-
try,”’ she explained, ‘and I told him
you were the only one at home.”
Barbara went into the hall. The
young man said, ‘“Miss Sentry?”
“I'm Miss Barbara.”
“I'm Dan Fisher,” he explained,
watching her appreciatively. “I'm a
reporter. My editor sent me out to
—well, to see if your father had any
ideas about this murder. And to
get some pictures and so on.” He
added, “I'm sorry to bother you.”
And then he grinned and said, “If
I were you, I wouldn't even talk to
me.”
Barbara liked him. “You're a
funny reporter,” she protested. “I
thought they wore their hats in the
house.”
“You're thinking of plain-clothes
men, policemen,” he suggested,
chuckling; and he added, surprising-
ly: “I met you once. You don’t re-
member? You were with Joe Dane
in New Haven after the Princeton
game two years ago. Joe introduced
“Oh!
game?”
“No, I'd been helping coach the
Princeton ends. Used to play a lit
tle, myself. That was before I went
into the newspaper game.”
She said courteously: “Why, then
we're really old friends! Will you
come in? There's no one at home,
but father and mother will be back
soon.”
He hesitated, shook his head.
“Thanks,” he said, “I don’t think
I will.” And he confessed, a little
amused at his own scruples: ‘““Prob-
ably a real red-hot reporter would
get some pictures out of you, and
an interview. If your father were
here—I'll tell you, I may come back
later.”
She nodded, understanding his for-
bearance, grateful. “I shouldn't
know what to say,” she admitted.
“If 1 were you, I wouldn't say
anything to reporters,” he advised.
“Just refer them to your father. “I
don’t mean for any of you to be
mysterious about it, of course. That
would only make it worse.” And he
said: “Thanks a lot. Good-night.”
Barbara was almost sorry he de-
parted. Her thoughts were terrify-
ing company. But when she heard
her father and mother return she
met them smiling.
“Well, you missed it!” she an-
nounced in lively tones. “I've been
entertaining a reporter!”
“A reporter?’ Mrs. Sentry echoed
Were you reporting the
resentfully. ‘Ridiculous! Barbara,
you shouldn’t have let him in the
house!"
“Oh, he was rather nice! His
name's Dan Fisher, and he went to
Princeton, and knows Joe Dane.”
Joe was Linda's brother, at Yale.
He and Phil Sentry were classmates
there, ‘But he wanted to see fa-
ther,” Barbara explained, and she
added mischievously, “‘I tried to get
him to come in and talk to me.”
Mrs. Sentry said in sardonic re-
proach, “Weren't you—unnecessari-
ly hospitable?’
“Well, he said we shouldn't be
mysterious about it,’”’ Barbara as-
sured them. ‘‘He said that would
just make ft worse.’’
Mrs. Sentry spoke to her husband.
“Arthur, you'd better call up Carl
Bettle, make him stop that sort of
thing.” Bettle was publisher of one
of the morning papers, and an old
friend. ‘I won't be hounded by re-
porters.”
Mr. Sentry shook his head.
“We've got to expect that, Ellen,
i HI I | ll
Hi
er, took it hot and cold, hot and cold
till his head cleared, thought how
all this would distress his mother,
thought of telephoning her reassur-
ances, thought he might send her a
wire, thought he might go home
over Sunday, and then remembered
the football game and did not want
to miss it, and in the end did noth-
ing that day at all.
But he did read the papers more
young Italian in Freedom, Maine.
He had been able to account for all
his recent movements. Other young
men, friends of the dead girl, were
being questioned. The girl's father,
who was a scallop fisherman, had
hurried to Boston. His picture ap-
peared; a long-legged, sad, droop-
ing little old man.
The police, Phil read, were in-
vestigating the fact that Miss Wines
had been mysteriously absent from
her lodgings for three days in Aug-
ust last. The twentieth, twenty-first,
and twenty-second. She had told
her landlady that she was going to
MH ==
HII Fr
tory, there was not a normal vocal
chord in the Bowl.
There was celebrating that must
be done, and Phil did it. What had
happened in Boston was forgotten
for that evening; but it must have
stayed disturbingly in the back of
his mind, since though it was three
| or four o'clock in the morning be-
after ten, and remembered, and
opened his door to get the Sunday
He read it, read every line in it
that concerned Miss Wines, There
were only two things really new in
the story of the murder. The autop-
sy had revealed a probable motive
for the crime; and the hour when
Agnes Wines was killed had been
fixed. A night watchman in a ware-
house nearby had heard the shot.
He had thought at the time that
two or three streets away, because
the sound was muffled; but now he
was convinced that it was in fact a
shot which he had heard. He was
for a day or two. Barbara's right.
To refuse would just make things
worse."
He added, “And after all, we've
nothing to hide.”
CHAPTER III
Miss Wines was found dead in the
hall outside Mr. Sentry’s office at
about eight o'clock Friday morning;
a Friday in October. The after-
noon papers cried the news; the
morning papers on Saturday spread
the tale over three or four pages.
Phil Sentry, a junior at Yale,
would have slept late that morning.
There was to be a football game
in the afternoon, and the pre-game
celebration the night before had in
his case risen to a somewhat fe-
vered pitch. He had no early class;
but Fritz Rush, his roommate, had;
and when Fritz returned to the room
in mid-forenoon he pulled the bed
clothes violently off Phil.
“Wake up, Phil!” he shouted.
“You've got your name in the pa-
pers!”
Phil Hinked sleepily. “What?
What's happened? We didn't start
anything last night, did we?”
“Read 'em and weep!” Fritz in-
sisted. ‘All about the murder in
high life! Pretty stenographer foul-
ly slain! Here, have a look!”
Phil sat up and peered, blinking,
at the headlines; he turned the
pages and saw photographs of the
dead girl, of his father, of Mr. Lor-
an, and of Sentry and Loran’s old
brick building in the market dis-
trict. The history of the firm, found-
ed by Phil's great-grandfather, was
related; and his father’s clubs were
listed, and his mother’s charities.
The names of Loran and Sentry,
even though the connection was
slight, lent a certain importance to
this murder of a pretty stenogra-
pher; yet an old newspaper man,
though the names might have been
meaningless to him, would have
from the extent of the
spread that there was more to
come, that there was a whisper of
sensation in the air.
Even Phil sensed this faintly as
he glanced through the pages; but
before he had finished, two or three
fellows came in to jest at his ex-
pense. Was Agnes Wines one of his
conquests, they demanded. What
was this power he had over women?
Where did he bury his dead? He
grinned, and then swore,
“Cut the comedy,” he said harsh-
ly. “Haven't you guys any sense of
decency? She looks like a nice kid.”
“Where were you, Mr, Bones,”
Joe Dane demanded in inquisitorial
tones, “between the hours of"
“Oh, don’t be so funny!’ Phil ex-
claimed. He stalked into the show-
visit a girl friend in New Hamp-
shire; but this girl--not named-—de-
nied that Agnes Wines had visited
her, or had even planned to do so.
Much was made of this fact. One
of the papers said in so many words
that the police were seeking the
dead girl's unknown lover, and car-
ried a subsidiary headline:
LOVE CLEW IN PRODUCE
HOUSE MURDER
Phil threw the paper aside at
last, and finished dressing; but when
he went to lunch, more than one
comedian asked, “Were you myste-
riously absent from your accus-
tomed haunts in August, Phil?"’ He
grinned and took it, as the easiest
way to put an end to this raillery;
which even the innocent may feel,
he tried to recall where he had
been on the dates given. He re-
membered at last that he had re-
turned just then from a cruise on
Bill Hoke’s schooner, had stopped
in Boston to see his father, found
that Mr. Sentry had gone to New
York on business, and himself had
gone on to York Harbor that after-
noon.
He was relieved at being able
thus to account for his time; and
later he forgot the murder for the
football game. Yale went into the
last quarter trailing by ten points;
and when in a feverish fifteen min-
utes they had fought through to vic-
sure of the time, having finished
his one o'clock rounds-just before,
Probably five or ten minutes past
one, he thought.
Phil was relieved to see that that
blaze of publicity which yesterday
had focused on his family and on
that of Mr. Loran had somewhat
abated now. Yet he knew so vividly
how they would each react to this
ugly experience. His father would
be concerned about the effect on the
the offense to her personal dignity;
Mary, like so many persons com-
sonally wronged as though the world
lous and unhappy. Barbara—Phil
smiled, thinking of Barbara-—would
keep her head high, make a joke out
of the whole thing,
them laugh.
telephone was unsatisfactory. He
him; that there might be something
he could do.
SUGGESTION
An employer had spent a great
deal of money to insure that his
men should work under the best
conditions, says Hartford Agent
magazine. “Now, whenever I enter
see every man cheerfully perform-
ing his task, and therefore I invite
you to place in this box any further
suggestions as to how that can be
brought about.”
A week later the box was opened;
it contained only one slip of paper
on which was written: “Don’t wear
rubber heels.”
Saving Money
The usual fisherman sat on the
| usual bank of the usual stream
| when the usual traveler approached
him.
“How are they biting?’ asked the
traveler socially.
“Not at all,” sighed the fisher-
man. “As a matter of fact, there
isn't a single fish in this whole
stream.”
“Then why are you fishing here?”
| ‘Because it pays me. Look at
| the money I save on bait!” —Tit-Bits
| Magazine.
A Good Start
| Albertson—Our baby is learning
| to recite ‘““Baa, baa, black sheep,
| have you any wool?"
| Cuthbert—What! Does he say all
| that?
{ Albertson—Well, not all, but he's
| got as far as “Baa, baa.”
NO CHANCE
“Have you saved any money for
a rainy day?”
{ ‘No, the rain hasn't stopped long
enough for me to do it."
‘Fish on Order
An angler, who had been trying
to hook something for the last six
hours, was sitting gloomily at his
task, when a mother and her small
son came along.
“Oh!” cried out the youngster, ““do
let me see you catch a fish!”
Addressing the angler, the mother
said, s€verely: ‘Now, don't you
catch a fish for him until he says
‘Please’!”’
Ancient History
“Yes, I make it a practice to visit
the dentist twice a year,” said the
methodical person. “1 like to have
him look at my teeth. of course;
but my main object is to see what
the periodicals were printing a year
ago.”
He Didn't See
Scout 1—Will you help me make a
Venetian blind?
Scout 2—Why should I?! The Ve-
netian never did me any harm and
besides he has as much right to see
as you have.—Boy's Life.
Easy
D. D.—How can one best prevent
disease caused by biting insects?
M. D—Don’t bite insects.
CAMOUFLAGE
paper stories that suggested the
be assured that everything was all
help and comfort if he could.
(TO BE CONTINUED)
Now the lifeguard starts to the
rescue before the victim knows he's
in trouble!
That's how scientific the art of
preventing drowning has become on
the beaches of Los Angeles county,
notes a writer in the Los Angeles
Times.
And when it works on 40,000,000
persons it must be_a good system.
Furthermore, if a swimmer gets
into trouble, swallows some water,
passes out and is dragged ashore, he
doesn’t have to worry about the life-
guard sticking a hatpin through or
tying a handkerchief around his
tongue. The old method of resusci-
tation is as passe as skirts on a
woman's bathing suit. Resuscitation
is painless nowadays.
Lifesaving has become a profes-
sion. Its members are proud and
jealous of their status. They won't
even let you drown if you want to.
That puts a black mark on their
records.
All these things become apparent
as the water warms up, the air
grows balmy and the crowds start
beaches.
From now on the lifeguard has his
job cut out for him.
He's ready for it. He has to be.
Guards are chosen nowadays on
such a strict basis that only the |
best qualified ever get to the point
of being paid members of the vari-
ous groups functioning from Long
Beach around to the Ventura county
Rip tides, incidentally, cause 78
per cent of the rescues. And most
of the persons who have to be res-
cued are men. The women are
more cautious and their bodies nat
urally are more buoyant.
Luther League of America
The Luther League of America is
a national organization having for
its purpose the unification of the
young people's religious societies
that are connected with the Luther.
an churches in America. It was
founded at Pittsburgh, F1a., in 1895
The motto is “Of the Church, by
the Church, for the Church.”
“Wasn't that a new girl 1 saw you
sailing along with the other night?"
| the craft in her new paint.”
No Danger
polished floor, won't you?”
“That’ll be all right, ma'am,” re-
| plied the plumber, “we "as nails in
our boots.”
per, please.
Storekeeper-—-What kind of paper?
Oliver—You'd better make it fly-
paper. I'm going to make a kite,
Star Dust
* Themes From News
* G-Man in Nursery
* Sabu Transformed
we By Virginia Vale
F YOU'RE interested in writ~
ing—or learning to write—
for the movies, take a tip from
Hal Roach, who certainly ought
to know what he is talking
about,
He recently conducted a survey,
rectly from newspaper clippings.
General news
(including aviation, maritime disas-
ters, divorce court proceedings, de-
pression stories and natural catas-
crime news,
9 per cent; letters to editor, 4 per
cent; love-lorn columns, 3 per cent;
Mr. Roach, at present, is filming
“There Goes My
who
(played by Virginia Bruce)
VIRGINIA BRUCE
runs away from the Riviera in her
grandfather's yacht, arrives in this
country and goes to work in her
own department store; Fredric
March is the reporter assigned to
cover her story.
Here you have, says Mr. Roach, a
romantic comedy, not a straight
drama, and it combines general
news, society news and lovelorn col-
umn material. Better study it with
that in mind, if you're interested in
seeing how film stories are put to-
gether.
Remember Corinne Griffith, you
old-timers? Not that your memo-
ries need go so very far back;
it’s not so long since she was a pop-
ular star. Corinne is one of the few
really happy retired stars. Her hus-
band, George Marshall, owns one
of the big professional football
teams, and he and she travel with
the team during the season.
And she has those two little girls
whom she adopted a few years ago,
taking them from an orphan asylum,
and taking two when she'd meant
to adopt just one because they were
sisters. Needless to say, she's
bringing them up beautifully—or
thought she was, until she discov-
ered that their favorite game is “G-
man’; that, when left to themselves,
they make the nursery ring with
“You won't talk, then—you rat!
Take that—and that!”
mean
Another young devotee of gang-
ster life is Sabu; remember him in
This young
Indian arrived in New York from
London for the opening of his latest
picture, “Drums,” the new Alexan-
der Korda release. When Robert
Flaherty discovered him in India,
while searching for a youngster to
play the title role in “Elephant
Boy,” he was just one more young
see him now!
He loves American slang, which
he picked up from the Hollywood
technicians in the English movie
studio where he worked. And he is
wild about the movies, especially
His
enthusiasm also includes war films
and any method of traveling fast,
particularly planes. And three years
ago he was riding elephants and
wm fsmeinn
Seth Parker, with “Ma and their
people all
as if old
lips Lord, who is “Seth,” plans to re-
vive many of his first successes—
the old-fashioned singing school
among them. And, of course, there
which the Parkers and the neigh-
bors sing hymns.
wefan
Fathers all over the country are
turning the radio on late in the after-
noons so that their sons can listen
to “Dick Tracr"—and not admitting
that they did it because they want-
ed to listen themselves. For “Dick"
has returned to the air, more
energetic than ever in his battle
against criminal activities.
smn
" ODDS AND ENDS—When Fred War