Evening star., 1922-04-03
From the Frying Pan Into the Fire.

! n ERRIAM LINDSAY felt terri
! ", fed at the awful moment
when the cry of "Police."
rang through the tawdry
/ Greenwich village restaurant in which
she had been dining with her cousin,
Cecily Leland, and two of Cecilys
artist friends
! She felt that John would never for
! give her for so disgracing herself;
she was quite sure that she was go
| ing to be arrested; she had sense
enough left to realize that nobody
would understand that this had been
the only time in her life in which
she had been in such questionable
surroundings.
Her foolish prank. that had grown
out of her anger at Johns going on
a three-day fishing party with the
Blaisdell men. was going to cost her
very dearly.
She sat quite still; indeed. she
could scarcely do otherwise. so many
persons were crowding against her.
The room was almost dark, so many
candles had been blown out when the
sudden rush of wind swept through
from the rear doors.
Cecily Leland and Fred Kirk had
been dancing when the cry of warn
| ing came; she rather felt that they
had been near enough the outer street
doors to escape. But she had no feel
ing of protection. The moody sculptor
who had been sitting opposite her at
the table seemed to have deserted her
completely. She groped to find her
raincoat and couldn't. She discovered
to her horror. that she had lost her
purse in the confusion.
Suddenly she felt herself lifted
bodily over the table. Arthur NAL
lory's quiet tones reassured her.
Don't struggle, I'm going to make
try for that side window" he pant
ed. when / shove you through and
ward the left, that's toward WASH
ington Square. Don't run very fast,
walk as soon as you're three doors
beyond the corner.
He f1attened himself against a wall,
braced himself. and. as an officer
rushed by them. made a sudden bolt
for the window.
By some happy miracle she found
herself on the slippery sidewalk. his
hand caught hers and together they
ran along the rain-swept street.
The absurd orange smock that Fred
Kirk had pulled over her head was
dripping with rain, it tapped wildly
in the spring wind.
Il can't run, she painted. I'm
sorry, I just can't
He paused. glanced over his shoulder
and drew a long breath.
Where do YOU live?' he asked
abruptly.
cold Spring Harbor," she answered
literally. Two miles from the sta
tion.'
Doesn't your cousin live in town."
"Oh, l won't try to go back to her
studio" she cried. ''If you'll just get
me to the Pennsylvania station-oh
oh. l forgot-Tve lost my purse.
haven't any coat"
He took her arm and began to
guide her northward.
I'VE can't go back for them" he
assured her GROSSLY. "And you can't
run around the streets in that silly
batik thing-we'd better point for
| my shop and have a council Of war
! come now. don't cry" he admon-
ished her.
She was trying hard not to weep.
She was drenched with rain. shiver-
| ing from excitement and cold when
they reached Washington News. He
opened the little side door that led
| into the studio. that had once been
a stable, found chair for her
snapped on the hideous cluster of
blue work lights at the top of the
| ceiling, and knelt to light fire in
the foreelike fireplace at the rear
| of the cavernous room.
There's one of my work smocks,"
he extended shapeless mass Of
muslin toward her, 'if you'd go
around there by the model screen