Worcester Democrat and the ledger-enterprise. (Pocomoke City, Md.) 1921-1953, 1940-03-15
CHAPTER 1

Brent had tried to avoid going to
the party. It was a warm spring
night, late in May, for spring comes
late and reluctant to Chicago. 1t was
a night to lie full-length on hilltop,
feeling the earth close-packed and
hard against your body, watching the
stars mark their unchanging patterns
across the thick, black curtain of the
sky.
He wasn't remotely interested in
the party, yet he went. Because Ter
ry insisted, because he had nothing
else in particular to do and because
the prospect of going anywhere SEEM
ed less distasteful than to spend the
evening alone in his clearinghouse
room or wandering the crowded
streets. Nights like this the city
pressed down upon Brent Randolph
with tangible, smothering weight.
The endless miles of pavement. The
towering buildings. The awareness
of people all around, of noise and
senseless hurry, deafening and con-
fusing him. At such times nostalgia
for the reaching pines and calm lake
water of his Wisconsin boyhood ached
like an ancient wound. These were
things he didn't talk about easily,
however. So he had only lame ex-
cuses to offer Terry Crewe, who labor
ed at the desk opposite his in the local
offices of the Major Refining Com
pany.
you'll like the crowd" he had
beamed at Brent. "And your host
ess! The first name is Conchita and
the last is Kelly and put them all to-
gether they spell dynamite. Really,
you haven't lived until you've met
Conchita!"
He had gone on then, in response
to Brent's final objection that he
wasn't very keen on parties, to as
sure him that it wasn't what you
could actually call a party -.
Now, in the midst of it, Brent saw
that Terry had been right. 1t wasn't
a party, it was a mob scene by De
Mile. People overlooked Conchita
Kelly's living-room and dining alcove
and eddied around her infinitesimal
kitchenette. There must be twenty
guests and it was just an average
sized apartment.
Rather a pleasant sort of place,
Brent imagined, when it wasn't SO
crowded. The walls of the living
room were a dull, soft blue and the
woodwork ivory. Roses in a white
pottery bowl topped the low book
shelves at one side of the room. A
wide window seat was covered in Gre
tonne to match tn Grapes, repeating
the warm deep tones of the burgundy
carpet. Somehow, the place didn't
suggest Conchita Kelly at all, but
wholly different type of person.
Brent had already met his hostess.
His glance strayed across the smoky
room toward where she sat on deep
couch, a canape in one hand, the other
snuggled chummily in the grip of the
blond young man beside her. She was
as vivid as glancing flame, her eyes
enormously wide and dark, her black
hair swept up from her temples in
two little curls suggestive of horns.
The blond young man, whose name
Brent hadn't caught, was obviously in
love with her.
Terry had murmured, "Conchita's
a kind of casual hostess-but isn't she
a knockout? Spanish and Irish with
a dash of the devil mixed in. It's a
hard combination to resist, my lad"
Brent didn't find it so. He was a
trifle disappointed at how completely
cold the beauteous Conchita left him.
Somehow he had thought, the way
circumstances seemed to conspire to
bring him here tonight. -.
A tiny radio in the corned blared
full force, making little or no I'M
preston on the din of talk and laugh
ter. Before it three couples danced
slowly round and round and back and
forth across a few feet of clear space.
One of the men was Terry. He had
put an Old fashioned in Brent's hand