Evening star., 1935-08-15

Lldu1l ocCIl
the stairs; they hadn't seen him
standing there at the open door. He
said, a flush of embarrassment cross
ing his cheeks:
Mrs. Seymour, forgive me, but
couldn't help overhearing. I was with
Betsy and Raoul last night, and I
brought Betsy home at Raoul'S Sug-
gestion. Something unexpected came
up. He had to meet some one at the
Union Station, believe
Johns gray eyes met BetSy's, and
the look of piteous gratitude that she
sent him wrung his heart. He added,
laughingly, as if it were entirely un-
important:
Did Betsy tell you that when we
came in from putting up my car last
night we found a burglar in the sitting
room?"
"A burglar?" Mrs. Seymour shot up
from the side of the bed.
"A burglar-and what a burglar"
John said. "All turned out in black
evening clothes and carrying a gun
with an automatic silencer! There
was tussle. A spot of blood was
spilled which I think you'll find stain
ing the hearth. But no harm was
done. I think we got the better of
the man. He made off with nothing
but a shot through the shoulder and
] -. I have his pistol"
"A burglar-with pistol" Mrs. Sey-
mour repeated, incredulously. Raoul
was forgotten. The relief that she
had felt over Johns assurance that
Betsy had had no part in or connection
with Raoul's murder was forgotten.
"A burglar in our home! I am fiat
tered. But but shouldn't we
notify the police, Mr.. Storm?"
Il don't believe I would, were 1
you" John said. That way it would
get in the papers, and some other
second-story man might read about it
and decide to find out what had lured
the fellow to this house. Better Just
let the whole thing drop. You might
buy an extra bolt for your doors"
John glanced down at Betsy again.
His heart stirred in his breast as he
saw how forlorn and frightened she
looked propped up on the pillows, the
cretonne coverlet drawn modestIy to
the oval chin of her tear stained little
face.
He said:
To-day is Thanksgiving day, Betsy,
IN case you've forgotten it's holiday.
How about spending it with me? A
long drive out into Maryland? Dinner
and supper somewhere on the road?"
He stood waiting for his answer,
smiling down at her, his eyes loving
her, the very set of his head loving
her.
She said, trying to smile, trying to
keep her voice light and gay so that
her mothers suspicious about the
vanity case might not be reawakened:
"Oh, I'd love it, John. III be ready
before you can split a second"
He went out of the room then, with
Mrs. Seymour closing the door behind
him and following him into the hall,
oombarding questions at him about
the burglar. And as Betsy scrambled
out OF bed, for there had been a mute
signal IN Johns eyes telling her to
hurry, she could hear her father and
Terry coming from their rooms, join
ing in the discussion, and Tommy COL
Inns, leaning over the balustrade from
the third floor, his voice carrying
above the others-"I once wrote a
piece OF poetry about burglar called
'Brawn.' Whoever failed to let me in
on last nights fight was foul skunk!
Thlnk what a source of inspiration
that would have been-yeah. Johns
no bust; burglar bites the dust! How's
that?"
Johns canary y-and-chromium road
ster was as gay inside as out. Betsy's
silk sports shirt beneath her trim
black tweed suit and her felt hat were
as yellow as the leather seats, her eyes
as blue as the sweeps of sky above
them. And there was a radio which
murmured the strains of popular songs.
But for all the festive appearance.
gayety did not ride with them. Raoul
De Prudentio had been murdered in
his penthouse. Betsy had been alone
with him shortly before the tragedy.
The police were looking for blond
girl, Marshall, Libby, the elevator
boy and taxi driver had seen her
running frantically out of that build
ing as if indeed she might have killed
Raoul. Those were the things that
rode with them.
who do you suppose did it?" Betsy
asked, biting her lips to keep them
from trembling.
John turned his head to look at her.