Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1929-11-16

| FOTOeS IS sure EndE hHOd0 WnftG Is RnOuC
McFGriaad, and that these people thtni
iginS this beiisj. Ne tells RSoGs Of thts
| McFarIdHd pRd 0iUes him to understand
| that his interest in her affairs is nnUel-
! come.
SECOND INSTALLMENT.
~ HODA tried to tell herself she
- was glad she had snuhbed Mar
IN her hen Affairs sf9aiTs pried into and a1 he
had deserved exactly the treat
ment he got. She enjoyed, after
| fashion, the consciousness of his glar-
! ing at her from the edge OF the dance
floor, but when she perceived that ne
was no longer there and came to the
conclusion that he'd really abandoned
her, she found suddenly that she was
tired of the Alhambra and wanted 10
go home. And although she maintained
that Martins suspicious OF Max Lewis
were wild nonsense, she was rather glad
that Leander Higgins offered to take
her home.
Their trip. mostly by trolley, was
without incident. OF course, it would
be! Martin had made up the whole
thing out of his own head. She was as
friendly as she knew how to be to Lee
ander all the way to the studio door,
but at that point she said good night
to him firmly. 1t had been only by the
exercising of a good deal Of resolution
that she'd kept her mind on him up to
that point. And until Babe came home
she wanted to be let alone.
She hadn't yet made up her mind
what she'd say to Babe, whether she'd
tell her anything of what had hap
pened tonight, or even whether she'd
ask her any questions. She took Babe
absolutely for granted as a loyal friend
and conceded her the possession OF a
fund of Shrewd wisdom. But once
started, could Babe be stopped? The
lacked was brakes. She couldn't think
ably be told the whole story, and it
would probably be safer to tell her none
of it: be in bed and sound asleep when
Babe got home. And yet she would like
to know whether Martin had said any
thing to her about his discoveries.
AS she glanced around the studio,
after shutting the door on Leander Hig-
gins. her eye fell on tonight's News,
scattered about the floor as her ROOM
mate had left it. Was that advertise
ment really in the paper, or had Mar
tin Forbes made that up, tooP No, there
it was in the personal column, Just as
he'd said: "Rhoda Mcfarland will learn
something to her advantage. :" She
dropped into Babes chair and the sec
ton of the paper slid from her hand
back to the floor
1t had given her q surprising shock
to see her discarded name in print like
that. 1t brought things back that she'd
thought she was done with forever;
some things that she hadn't thought
about in years.
Their yard at home, with the veneer
able live oak In the middle of 1t, in
whose branches she and her three In
separable friends used to scramble
about like young monkeys: the three As
they. used to call them, because their
names all began that way-Ann and
Alice and Amy. And she had used to
wish passionately that her name be-
gan with an A, too. They were ell in
the same grade; seventh it was, when
her father told her one morning that
she wasn't to 60 to school any more
for the present. For the present! She
had never gone to school again; not
since that day. And Amy and Alice
and Ann faded out of the picture. They
didn't come to play In her yard any
more.
And she had understood that it was
because of something that was spoken
of, when it was mentioned at all, as the
trial, her fathers trial-Prof. Walter
Whitehouse Mcfarland. Shed had q
glimpse of his name once in headlines.
Her father had stopped being profess
sor at the same time she'd stopped go
ing to school. He was at home all the
time and for O while-though whether
it was days or weeks she couldn't re-
member-they'd made a sort Of pre-
tense of having school at home with
him for teacher. Interrupted, haraSsed
days those were, with people coming TO
see MIN and being sometimes told that
he was out, even when she knew ne
wasn't.
There were a few days toward the
end, Just before they left California for
good, when he had been away from
home all the time and she had known,
somehow, that the trial was going on.
Also she had known before she saw
him on his return, though again the
source of her knowledge eluded her
memory, that the outcome of it had
been favorable to him, that he had
''got Off" She must be right about
that since she still SO wildly remem-
hered her disappointment and perplex-
ity, when she saw him again, over the
fact that there was nothing triumphant
about him; that he had been, If posi-.
BILE, whittier and more bitterly silent
than ever.
Shed hoped he would tell her what
the trial had been about. He had
never, even in after years, told her
that. Only once, that she knew Of
had his spirit flashed up.
This had happened when her Uncle
william-he must have been her dead
mothers brother, he couldn't have
| been her father's-had come to see them
after the trial and before they started
East. She couldn't remember ever haV-
| ing seen him before, but she did re-
member the falsely genial smile with
which he had reproached her for haV'
| ing forgotten him.
He'd been an ogre to her ever since
and even now, when she told herself
| that he probably had not been as tai
as the ceiling, even as the living room
ceiling of the bungalow, and that hi
flashing teeth couldn't have been un'
naturally luminous, she still chung witt
shudder to her childish recollections
of him.
Anyhow, her father had not beer
| afraid of him. He'd sent her from the
room on Uncle Williams saying thai
/ her father could probably guess what
| he'd come to see him about. She'C
obediently gone, but only as Tar OIL
her bedroom, and the boom OF thu
ogre's voice had come through the tnlr