Evening Star Newspaper, September 6, 1935, Page 34

"B—14 LOVELY LITTLE FOOL oA Story of Washingtons Soot Set % 8 PHYLLIS MOORE GALLAGHER CHAPTER XXXIV. UT Betsy was running away from him, leaving him there. Breathlessly she stumbled through the rock garden, be- mneath drooping silverish dogwood, de- taining thorns of rose bushes clinging to her billowing skirt, sharp-edged pebbles slipping into her sandals. Tears were wetting her face, her throat, splashing into dark blotches on the pink mousseline as she reached the shining crescent of parked cars before the terrace. With her mouth twisted into a stark, desperate little line, she searched frantically for Terry's car. If only Terry hadn't Jocked his car. If only ... only. .. Terry hadn’t locked the dilapidated little automobile. Betsy hurried blindly into it, slamming the rattling door, stepping remorselessly on the rusty starter. She backed the roadster out, turned it through the driveway, headed it at a shocking and tre- mendous speed up Connecticut avenue. She neither knew nor cared where she was driving. She wanted only the wind rushing against her face, solitude, forgetfulness. Vaguely she knew that she passed stately white apartment houses, the low rambling homes of the rich; that she turned down into a road where the foliage of green elms melted together above her, shutting out the moonlight. ‘Vaguely she was conscious of the rustic ‘wooden bridges and the old stone mill of Rock Creek Park and the low moans of the animals in the Zoo nearby . . . animals afraid of the night which instinct had not taught them to understand. She did not cry out like they, but she was afraid, too, of darkness . . . of this suffocating darkness that had dropped down upon the golden sunshine of hope. And as she drove not once was she conscious of the bright lights of a car that trailed her, a car that stopped when she stopped, turned when she turned, drove fast when she drove fast. Always behind her. It was long past midnight when reason returned to Betsy. She drove | more slowly now, her fingars closed | tensely over the rough wood of the | old steering wheel. Why had she let this thing happen to her? Why had | she been too proud, too terror-stricken to fight for John? Why had she just stood by and listened to Jennie's stories of John and Angelica, refusing to take her advice, doing nothing? Why had she let her heart grow | numb and bitter and dead so that she might forget that wedding in the little house in Georgetown . . . that she might forget John? Every- | thing! Forget! As if she could ever | Sorget! Tonight she had had her chance. She had been in John's arms. She could have told him that she loved him, she could have explaifed. But she hadn’t. She had just danced and said nothing and made it easy for him to go out of her life . . . to go to Angelica! She had thrown him back to Angelica! Suddenly Betsy sent the car ahead In great throbbing leaps. Her fingers were trembling now, but her young face was all alight. It had come to her, overriding all the tears and doubts and sense of false pride that had grown in her heart—she would | go to John. She'd go to him! 1If, there was one little spark of love left in his heart for her she would awaken it. She'd fight now. She’d humble her pride at his feet and be flercely happy in doing it! She'd make him understand . . . make him! John’s light was on when Betsy @drove up to the curb. How many times had she made Terry drive her past this apartment house lately—how many times had she stared up at those big French windows, trying to visualize John studying, reading, listening to the radio. Now she sat there at the curb in the dim light of a distant street lamp, steadying herself. She must not be nervous, unstrung, When she went up to John. She took @ wispy handkerchief out of her purse and brushed it tremblingly across the faint mist of perspiration on her tem- ples. She clicked open her vanity and touched her lips with crimson and dabbed lightly at her nose. There was a cracked rear-vision mirror in Terry’s car and she tried to see her reflection in it. But she couldn’t. “I probably look like an Indian on the warpath,” she told herself, and laughed, nervously. “I'll scare John to death! I'm scared to death my- self! Oh, God, help me with this! Help me!” - Betsy got out of the car, her heart beating fast, and hurried across the pavement. At the trim boxwood hedge she glanced up at the window once more for reassurance—and stopped short! Her face turned starkly white. Her hand flew to her throat, groping at it to relieve the choking. ‘There, limned against the faint amber light was John. John and Angelica. John drawing Angelica quickly into his arms, bending and kissing her! Kissing her! She had come too Jate . . . too late to fight . . . too late to do anything! John Storm wasn't Marshall Van Devanter . . . one for promiscuous kissing. If he kissed Angelica he meant it . . . meant it with all his fine heart and soul and body! Betsy didn't look up at the window @gain. She bit her lips to keep from screaming and hurried back toward ‘Terry’s car. The tears were so big in her eyes, blurring the trees and street and sky, tumbling them into one, that she did not see the girl who stepped in front of her , . ., did SOOTHES not feel the cold muzzle of the re- volver that dug beneath her heart. “Excuse me . . . please . . . Betsy said, very still, like something within her speaking to herself, and not to the girl. Then suddenly she heard Libby Stockton’s voice and became sharply conscious of the pistol thrust at her. “Get in that car, Betsy Seymour! I mean business!” Betsy winked the tears from her lashes. She swayed & little on her feet, her hand fumbling up along the golden curls at her temples, down her burning cheeks and to the base of her throbbing throat. It was hard to believe that Libby really stood there before her with a pistol in her hands, her green eyes blazing hatred. Things like that didn’t happen. You read of jealous wives, jealous sweethearts in newspapers. . You read of madness, temporary insanity. But you never quite believed in it. “I said get in my car, Betsy Sey- mour!” Libby repeated between clenched teeth. “I told you I meant business!” Betsy stared at her, fascinated and THE EVENING STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C, FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 6, 1935. afraid. She felt her stomach draw sickeningly into & heavy ball. “Libby, you're mad! Mad! You don’t know what you're doing!” But even in the dim light there was no mistaking Libby’s uncontrolled anger. Her green eyes flung fiercely over the street, the doors and win- dows, for possible intruders, and came back to glare at Betsy. She stiffened visibly and her mouth drew up tightly against her teeth. “If you don't get in that car I'l kill you! Here! Now!" “Libby!” Betsy began protestingly. But her voice died in a sharp inward breath before the feverish brightness of Libby's eyes, the twitching muscles | - of her face. She knew that Libby meant what she said. She was insane enough and stockly, mad enough to stop at nothing. Betsy battled for courage as she stepped into the car and slid under the steering wheel. Libby climbed in beside her and slammed the door, the pistol till aimed at Betsy’s heart. As the motor roared and the ccr jerked away from the curb the night their faces, Libby threw back her kdlrk head and laughed piercingly. Betsy's frightened eyes hurried from the grayness of the street to Libby. She started at her, wide-pupiled, still not quite believing that this was real. Her fingers were damp and trembling on the steering wheel. Libby bent forward quickly, her pale, drawn face suffused with venom. “Drive down to the Lincoln Me- morial” She spat out the words,.her |eyes narrowed to glittering slits. | “Drive to the placc where you and Marshall had such a lovely petting wind rushing strong and cool against | party one night! = Where you and Marshall sat in each other's arms while I watched . . . hating youl « + o hating you as I hate you now! . . ..as I have always hated you for standing between me and the only man I ever wanted!” “Libby! You've let your hate for me become an obsession! It's mad- ness! Oh, can't you see that you've dwelt on this . . . this . . . this something that doesn’t exist . . . that you've brooded .until your mind is warped and distorted with jeal- (To Be Continued Tomorrow.) The ideal time for a tri azingly low fares NEW YORK 5.50 one way PHILADELPHIA _350 ” " CHARLOTTE S1s ” " ATLANTA _____895 " ” Tickets and Information to all parts of the U. S. —BUS CENTER— 609 Penna. 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