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T CHAPTER XI—Continued —13— 'Til be glad when it’a over. Your •yes seem tired, Brooke.” "Do you wonder? They have looked at the scum and dregs of the underworld, at pictures in rogue galleries, at line-ups, at patients in hospitals, trying to identify the man who ran through my room." "I heard that the police were sure that Hunt was the man when red paint was found on his shoe.” "The trouble with that clue was that it wasn't his shoe. When he first regained consciousness in the garage, he complained that his feet felt as if they were in iron casts. Then the police with their steam- shovel methods hurried him into the living room of the white cottage. When he saw what lay on the floor he collapsed! After he was taken to the hospital—he's still in a coma —his shoes had to be cut off. Then It was found that they were a size smaller than his at the cottage. The man whom the Cassidy girl saw in the garage must have changed and taken Hunt's shoes. He was a quick worker." "Bill Harrison may be smart but what has he done toward clearing up this tragedy? Nothing." ''He wants the case to drop out at the headlines. He says that the guilty parties will then think that the hunt for them is cooling off " *T wish they'd put me on the force. I'd show them a thing or two ” The brim at Mrs Gregory's large hat flopped in unison with the thump of her cane. 'T'm not afraid at bandits I've ordered some of my )ewels from the bank to wear to Sam s play " “Oh. Mrs Gregory! Is ft safe?” "Safe' Do you think PU be fright ened out at wearing what I like? Besides, lightning never strikes in the same place twice. Lucky the performance is coming off soon; ev erybody is getting edgy " "We ll relax tonight Mark Trent Is giving the Fields and Reybuma a party in town at that new Supper Chib. It was planned for two weeks ago but it was postponed It seems a century since I have been to a real party ” “Mark needs a change of thought too. It's an ill wind that blows no body good Lola is out of his life, thank heaven But. much as I love you. Brooke. I'll never forgive my self for signing my name as witness to Mary Amanda Dane's will which cut him off.” Brooke's mind whirled and stead ied. Mrs Gregory's signature was not on the will which had been probated; she had made sure of that again recently Perhaps the one to which she referred had been drawn earlier. "How could you know what you were signing? Witnesses are not supposed to see the contents of a will are they? When did you wit ness it?” Brooke asked the question quick ly. She must know and get the un certainty off her mind. "Just a week before Mary Aman da died. Perhaps you remember the day. You drove in Just as I went out and—good heavens, I for got! 1 promised Jed Stewart that I wouldn't mention it Forget I told you. Brooke. It wasn’t very tactful of me anyway, but when was I ever tactful? I like that rust-color gown on you. Now I suppose every would-be smart woman in town will appear with one like it Why had Jed Stewart azked Mrs. Gregory not to mention her signa ture? Did he suspect dishonesty? Why wonder? Hadn’t she been sure for weeks that thfe two men in Mark Trent’s house were there for some other reason than sheer love of a New England village in win ter? > The thump of Mrs. Gregory’s cane brought her mind to attention. "I’ve asked you twice. Brooke, if you thought Sam liked Daphne Field.” "He likes her, Mrs. Gregory, but Sam won’t allow himself to go senti mental over anyone at present” "Allow himself! Then he isn’t in love. We may be living in a pro foundly changing society, but love hasn't changed. It stiU strikes like lightning, burns, and if it’s the real thing, settles into a steady flame. But I’m glad he doesn’t care for the Field girl" She rose and drew her sable cape about her shoulders. "If you are going to town tonight you ought to be dressing. What are you wear- tog?" i "An adorable silver frock. It does things to my hair, brings out the glints to it" Gregory lingered on the threshold. "Be nice to Mark, Brooke. He's a wonderful boy, don't you think so?" *Td hardly call him a boy—he’s ■ut that’s the trend. Chacun a son gout—I’ve joined a French class—I prefer Jer ry Field's type.” Mrs. Gregory expressed her re action by a denatured snort “You prefer Jerry Field! I’d like to take you over my knee and spank sense into you! Good-night!” Brooke laughed. "Good-night Mrs. Gregory. Even if you don’t approve of me, I hope you’ll come again soon.” She was still smiling as she re turned to the living-room window for a last lingering look at the color ful west "It is unbelievable that all this comfort really is mine," she told herself. "Only a year ago, Brooke Rcyburn. you were driving a shabby sedan and counting every penny and—” Memory slashed into her self-con gratulation. Mrs. Gregory had witnessed a will a week before Mrs Dane had died. Where was it? Should she go to Jed Stewart at once and tell him what she had beard? But be knew. He had asked Mrs. Gregory to say noth'ng about it Why hadn't he told her? What did It all mean? It gave her panicky feeling, as if she were wan dering blindly in the dark on the edge at a precipice. She poked the Ore vigorously. It was a physical outlet to her turmoil at mind. 'Take care. Miss, or you'll set the chimney afire." Henri warned from the threshold. "I think not. It was thoroughly cleaned when I came here to live." Why was he puttering? He was drawing the bangings over the win dows. pulling a rug in place, re folding the morning newspaper oo the desk, fussing about the parrot's cage, a parrot who had lost half at his tail and all his self-assurance since his excursion into the outer arorld. He cleared his throat and drew long bony fingers over his slack mouth. “I—I've been wanting a chance to talk with you since—since we— we found the parrot. Miss." He was avoiding mention of the tragedy at the Ailing-station. Why? "What have you to say to me?” He drew his fingers across his mouth. “It's about that—what hap pened at the filling station. You know 1 went to the movies that eve ning. came home and went to bed. Miss Lucette and the others saw me when I came down to find out what the noise was I beard. You know that after that I dressed and went out to hunt for the parrot, that I brought him in with me. but the police want to check up on me every minute. You can help me very much. Miss.” "How?” “By swearing that I was in this house at the time of the—the rob bery at the filling station.” “But, as I remember it, you weren’t, Henri. You said that you were hunting for the parrot” The butler emitted a sound like the snarl of a savage beast at bay. "You'd better say I was. Miss, or—or 1'U tell how I found this in your desk.” He drew a folded pa per from his pocket. “Mr. Sam has overlooked grand dramatic material right here, Hen ri. You would steal the show as the villain in his comedy. Just what is ‘this’?” Her voice was tinged with amused unbelieL "Take it Miss.” Brooke thought of the fangs of a wolf as he smiled his secretive smil*. She unfolded the paper and noticed that a tiny corner of the sheet was missing. Mary Amanda Dane’s writing! Mrs. Gregory’s sig nature! Henri's. Clotilde’s. Was it the will of which Mrs. Gregory had spoken only a few moments ago? How had it come in Henri's posses sion? t “You say you found this in my desk?” The butler's greedy eyes glit tered like black beads. "Yes, Miss. I’m prepared to swear to that in court unless we can come to terms.” “Why didn’t you take it directly to Mr. Trent or Mr. Stewart?” Was her voice as icy as her body felt? “I thought it was too bad to do that until I found out if you and I couldn’t work together. Mr. Mark tried to get in\ wrong with the old madame.” Hatred flamed in his eyes and voice. "Why should I help him?” “Will this—this—help him?" “Read it. Miss.” 'Til wait until I’m alone. The paper is torn. Did you tear it when you—pulled it from my desk*”' Henri’s teeth showed between suddenly pallid lips. “I—I—didn’t pull u Miss, i—1 took it careful.” The last word was • «uispei. What was there about a torn corner of a sheet at paper to terrify him? “I’U talk with you about it later. Brooke stood rigid, listening imtil heard the door to the china closet swing. Curious bow she had come to know every sound in this bouse which had been hers for so short • time. Hers! Was it hers? What was in the paper which Henri would swear he had found in her desk? She had pretended to consider his proposition that they work to gether merely to get time to decide what she should do. She raced up the stairs, switched on the light in her boudoir, locked the door behind her. She spread out the paper oik her desk, shut her eyes hard, drew a long breath before she looked. There wax not much on the page, but what there was, was in Mrs. Dane’s fine writing. The date was that of a week before she died. The words burned into Brooke’s mind as if written with a red-hot poker: I don’t know how to word a formal will, but I hereby give and bequeath all my property rea! and personal—which I left in a previ ous will to Brooke Reyburn—except the amount as stated in said will to be given to my faithful servants, Henri and Clotilda Jacques, to my nephew Mark Trent, to have and to hold during his life and to dispose of as he wishes. I know now that my ideas of right and wrong should not deprive him of his rightful in heritance. He was a wonderful son. He has been a devoted nephew. I make him sole executor without bonds of my estate. I ask him to provide an income sufficient for frills and fun for my dear young friend. Brooke Reyburn.” Brooke studied the signature. Mary Amanda Dane’s without a doubt, unless it was a clever for gery, Anne Gregory’s name sprawl ing under it, and Henri's and Clo tilda's tight, foreign writing. Suppose she destroyed this paper which would deprive her at a for tune? A lighted match under It and it would go up in smoke. Who would know? Who would believe Henri against her? Wasn't be al ready under suspicion in the filling station hold-up? Suppose be did try blackmail? He wouldn’t get far with it Whs. terrible thing was she think tog? The eyes at the white faced girl who stared back at her from the mirror were big with horror. Was she two persons? Had her other 3 $1 m * > ■ Was She Two Pi self turned craven? Had that thought changed her face? For an instant she had been a criminal at heart. She, Brooke Reyburn, who considered her personal standards of honor and decency of the high est After this she would under stand temptation as she never had understood it before. A car! Lucette and Sam. She must hurry and dress. Sometime during the evening she would give the paper to Mark Trent That would be her answer to Henri. Where could she put it meanwhile? She would tuck it inside her frock. She was fastening the corsage of green orchids Mark Trent had sent her to the front of her gleaming silver frock when she met her brown eyes in the mirror. She dropped the flowers as if they had burned her fingers. She couldn’t wear his gift until she was sure that he be lieved that she had not known until this evening of his aunt’s change of mind. Why hadn't he come directly to her when he had heard Mrs. Gregory’s story? Because he be lieved she knew where the will was, that she was dishonest, that was why. Perhaps he was right. What would he think of her if he suspected that for a split second she had thought of burning it? She would wear Jerry’s gar-, denias; she had chosen Mark the Magnificent’s orchids first, simply because he was her host, she as sured herself. She added more color o her white cheeks, to her lips, dusted her face with powder, anything to switch her mind from that nightmare instant of terrifying suggestion. She waited until she nearu ner brother’s and her sister’s doors clor: before she opei.ed hers. Sam popped his head out and called: “White tie tonight, Brooke?’ *C ' course Sam Our promising ^ oun , playwright must be swanky. I’ve had your top hat ironed and he started She stopped on the the living-room she loved. Now It would be ton up by the roots. aU her father's treasures would go back to storage. And her gorgeous flower • windows would be but a dream. Would she be obliged to re turn the money she had spent? That would mean dragging a ball and chain of debt the rest of her life. Cheerful prospect Could Mary Amanda Dane’s "little friend, Brooke Reyburn,” see herself ac cepting from Mark the Magnificent an income sufficient for "frills and fun”? Never. She would have to hunt for a job. But she wouldn’t have to hunt—she wouldn’t! The Palm beach offer! Had the position been filled? She would send a nigh, letter. Better do it now before Sam and Lucette came down. As she waited for the telephone call to go through, she told herself that she had learned one inestima ble lesson: she had learned that for every person the gateway to suc cess was in himself; that achieve ment was a matter of keeping on keeping on, of living one’s best and trying, everlastingly trying to make that best better. She was re turning to business equipped with that knowledge. She gave her message and turned to the fire. She didn’t really mind going back to work, she had loved it, but she had planned to do so much for her mother, for Lucette, for Sam. Sam! Nothing must happen to dis tract his mind from the production of the play. If she were to produce that will now, the neighborhood, to say nothing of the cast, would palpi tate with excitement, the Reyburns would have to leave Lookout House at once. She knew nothing of law except that it was as relentless as * Juggernaut. What-the court de creed had to be done. A producer from New York was coming to see Sam’s comedy. The Boston man- arer wouldn’t bring him down un less he thought Sam had talent. The performance was only 48 hours •way. Could she keep Henri quiet until then? If the couldn’t she was the world's worst actress, and Sam had said that she was good. After the play Mark Trent was to keep open house for cast and audience. She would stay until the last guest had departed, then she would give this will, burning against her skin, to him and fide gracefully from the picture. Better lock it up to her desk until then. It wouldn't be safe to carry it around with her. Back to her boudoir she locked the paper to an Inside drawer of her desk and slipped the key into her bag of silver sequins. Returning to the living-room, she paused before the portrait above the manteL ’This ail means that you and I will be on the move again.” she said to a low voice. “On the move, but with banners. Duch ess! With banners!” She threw a to the woman to green satin emeralds who looked back at her gravely. Sam appeareo to the doorway, and Brooke quickly asked: “Have you heard any more particulars •bout—about what you call the crime wave?” She perched on the arm of a big chair and looked up at Sam standing with one elbow on the manteL “Nope, nothing except the usual lot of wild yarns which roll up like showballs at a time like this. Have you ever thought that one of her ex-lovers might have bumped off the fair Lola?” “Sam! Where did you hear that?” "Didn't hear it. That ex-lover motif is a plot, a little thing of my own. It’s my conception of what should have occurred to put claws, tearing, digging, ravening claws in to the Filling Station Mystery. May use the idea sometime; that's why I asked you to clip all the accounts of the police activities and confes sions, if there were any. Have you done it?” "I have, from every paper I could get hold of. When you want them they are in a manilla envelope in the lower right-hand drawer of my desk. I haven’t said anything to you about it but I was afraid that after what had happened, Mark Trent might feel that he could not go on with the play." "Afraid! That’s putting it mildly. I nearly had heart failure till he as sured me that he would keep his part He'll make 'Islands Arise.’ He does more than play the lead, he puts glamour into the comedy and warmth and strength and vital ity. I told him he was a fighting lover. He looked queer for a min ute; perhaps he was thinking that he didn’t put up much of a battle for that wife of his who walked off with the French count Why should he change his plans for a woman like that? The shock of the tragedy has practically worn off. Spirits are picking up and by day after tomor row everyone will be keen to make whoopee, to get the thing out of their minds. Two days! Boy, but I get cold feet when I think of all that night means to me." (TO BE CONTINUED) How Other Half Lives Riis House, on the lower East Side of New York, was founded many years ago by Jacob Riis, newspaper man. author and reform er. Throughout his life he devoted his time and effort to improving the lot of the needy. 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