New Britain Herald Newspaper, March 29, 1926, Page 12

TRAM b o w ‘('The names and situations In this story arc fictitious). i o L OMEN love trouble. If they haven't any, go out and make some for themselves.” “Don’t you—all of you!" he insisted. Morton laughed, as he reached across the table for a match. The girl gazed a him somberly. For a long while she made no reply, but studied his face as he blew careless smoke wreaths from his cigaret. “You and your women!"” she said, suddenly. Her jeweled fingers clung together, hard, until her knuckles showed white. “Your women — that's the only trouble. [ didn't make that trouble. You made it!” Morton laughed again. “What’s the matter with my women?” he inquired. “Aren't you one of them?” After a moment he added: “Maybe you're the only one.” Her black eyes narrowed, and her lips drew back over her white teeth. “That isn’t so! I'm not! I don’t mean anything to you at all!” She took the tall glass that stood before her, and drained it. Then she turned her bare shoulder to him and stared at the dancers in the center of the room. It was one o'clock in the morning, and activities at the night club were in full swing. The room was small — sur- prisingly small to yield the immense profit that was said to flow to its proprietor. Two dozen tables, at the most, were erowded about the tiny dance floor. Nearly all the tables were filled, with men and girls in evening dress. A languid couple or two danced to the music of a moaning orchestra. The folk at the tables, equally as languid, watched them, picking at the scanty food that lay on their plates, and drinking. Now and then a waiter, bowing over one of the tables, would slip a pint bottle of whisky, wrapped in a napkin, into the lap of a guest. In one corner, a young man was asleep, his head on his arm. The girl who sat with him held her arm protectingly over his shoulder. Next to her sat a man with a pasty, dead-white face, who automatically took glass after glass of raw liquor. His eyes were glazed; fishy., He stared straight before him, never moving except to fill his glass, 1ift it, drain it, and fill it again. There was a woman with him, who talked, but he did not look at her, nor answer. Morton followed the gaze of his girl companion for a moment, and then turned to a survey of her. Her hair, black and straight and glistening, clung tightly to her small head. A single strand of pearls hung around lier neck, moving on her full bosom as she breathed. Her arms were rounded and shapely, adorned only with a broad bracelet on one wrist. Her dress was of gold tissue. “Pretty fair taste,” he commented, half aloud. She turned toward him. “What?” “1 was saying to myself,” he said, “that you are dressed in pretty fair taste.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Thanks — it cost enough, this outfit.” Possessing himself of one of her hands, he examined it. “Fingers slender; no trace of work; too many rings—but they all wear too many, now. Two of the rings are good ones.” Her attention, though, had wandered. She looked about the room again, watching the dancers for a moment, and then inspecting the couples that sat near her. “What do people come here for?” she demanded. Morton dropped her hand. “Why not?” “Oh,” she said, “they all look so ghastly bored. And Lord, no wonder!” She smiled, bitterly. “There's no fun in being tough.” She held out her glass, and Morton filled it, from a silver flask. “Then why be tough?” he queried. “Because they're all blasted fools You're a — you're — I don't know whe not.” She held her glass before her, inspecting it, and then looked at him as she had before, searchingly. “Do you realize,” she continued, “that I've known yvou nearly a year, and 1 don't know any more about vou than T did at first? I don't w whether you are married. o1 not. 1don't know whether you care anything about me, o1 not. Idon't know one single thing about vou, really.” Morton smiled, and repossessed himself of her hand. “Poor little doulting Nona! Do rou want me to tell vou the story of my life? “No, Idon’t.” Ter E it if you did tell me.” ¢ resumed, her voice was softer. T guess what I really want to know is about Lois. and Camelia, and—and all those girls. Hariy, sweetheart, do you care about them? 1 mean, do vou like them as well as you do me” Her eyes had filled with tears, and Morton patted her hand aid. “I'm a fool, r yvou're a fool or ten, Nona,” he assured her, *T ¢ told those women I cared anything about them. “You never told me, either,” she retorted, pulling or hand ax “That's your line! v it! You t sit and laugh, while a girl breaks her heart about you' She was weeping now, her crimsoned lips twitching, and her chin quivering in little convulsive movements. Morton rubbed his cheek, reflectively, and arose. i “Come on,” he directed. “We're not having a very good time. Let's go.” Hc_handed a $50 bill to the waiter, without pausing to cxamine the charges on the card, and led the girl to the dimly lighted reception . She held her handkerchief to her eves, but the crowd paid no attention. It was used to erying girls. “Go in axd powder you nose,” he told her. “I'll wai Obediently she disappeared into t) room. A check boy inoking wit! women's his knowing eyve, ¢ hallow tomples, brought Morton He took, w word, the dollar he received as reward. Then, with Mor ton's silk hat and slender walking-stick, he stood at at “I'll Re Back Next Week. tention until Non: wink. She aceepred “Hello, Patsy,” aone, L i ¢ ."‘h‘wi d | i \;H\ and cane, The man took her elbow. “We should have had the hoy at supper with us, ps,” he commented, as they en- tered the ¢l e iable soul, isn't | “Oh, T kno m,” she said. “He used the old ! “Quit the theater to get rieh, Nona lau a little grimly. “Nobody gets rich around these I | exeept the propri You dor Suppo etz those tips, d 2 t let him have any pockets in his coat and house—except the ters’. But week. They can't afford to have him sore the distriet attorney. Al tips eo to the fiity dollars a , and trotting to A long, enclosed motor car was waiting in the dark strect, Morton and N ) d the chs his machine from the line of night-haw up to the curb. “We'll take Nona hom md said Morton, Her he She s houlder don't.’ “l dont | fled by with Lois, today.’ “Tut, tut! Good night Ie di 1 from his shoulder i I\ head, i1 assed his ncovered 'AIN DAILY HERALD, MONDAY, MARCH 29, 1926, Maybe You'll Feel Better Then.” the canopy that led from the doorway to the curb. A foot- man waited inside the great glass doors telephone oper- ator—a m with huge gray mustaches, sat in the lobby e the clevators. Past the doorman, and the footman and the telephone operator and the elevator attendant quests and tenants were filtered on their way to the suites above, As Morton came in, he nodded cheerfully to the servants, and doffed his overcoat as he entered the elevator. At his own door he produced a latch-key, and softly turned the lock. There was a bell on the door-jamb, with which to ummon the butler, but at two o'clock in the morning hutlers are abed. t drawing room was brightly lighted. No one but the pipe-organ, that filled an aicove at “cndof the room, was thundering out the strains of dilgrims” Chorus,” Throwing his overcoat, and hat and cane upon a chair, Morton stepped back to the alcove. The music ceased abruptly. ‘Hello, chicken,” said Morton, tenderly. “Why aren't in bec voung, fair girl ran forward, and kissed him, her arm around his neck. ‘m <o glad you came,” she cried. “I was so lonesome mted to er, I've been slamming away . at tlmt‘ old since ten o'clock.™ Morton stood with his arms around her waist, looking iously at her tired face. two o'clock now,” he said. “You're used up.” Then ‘huckled. *“It's a good thing this is a sound proof apart- nt—I'd have had to go get you out of jail for playing that organ.” Ie led her to a chair, and seated her in it with grave 'emony. Then he brought a footstool, and sat upon it. drew his d to the padded arm of {he chair, and caressed his temples with her slim fingers. He reached up and took her hand, drawing it over his shoulder. “Something’s worrying you, Audrey, he said. “What The girl reached over with her other hanr, and laid it on his forehead. “Almost everything’s worrying me,” she confessed. “] liate to have you go out nights, when we're here in the city, and you're spending too much money on me, and I don’t feel as if 1 was one bit of good in the world. Maybe I'd feel differently if T were your own really truly daugh- ter, but I'm not. And that's that.” Morton twisted his head so he could look at her. There was a quizzical light in his eye. “Women love trouble,” he quoted. ‘“And if they haven't any they go out and make some for themselves!” Audrey paid this the tribute of a fleeting smile, but her oves were serious. “How much money do you make every year?” she asked, impulsively. “Oh, about a hundred thousand dollars,” he answered. “Why?” The girl slipped from her chair to the floor, and nestled up against him. “Do you know,” she asked, soberly, “that I wish you didn’t have one penny except what you could earn with vour own hands, every week, and that I could keep house for vou on the and cook vour meals, and mend your clothes, and t when we went out for some fun we'd just ok the button of his evening coat, and twisted it in ‘If you didn’t have that money, maybe all these women wouldn't be hanging around you, and telephoning vou, and everything. Some woman has been calling up here almost every hour, all evening.” Morton chuckled. *So you don't think they love me {or myself alone?” The girl took hig hand and smoothed it between her own. “Maybe they love you — maybe they ean't help it. But if vou didn't have so much money you couldn't take them oul places. You's have to work, and you'd be tired at night and would come home to me,” Morton made a little erooning noise in his throat, as one makes to a troubled child. Arising, he stooped and picked the girl up in his arms. Carefully he mounted the steps to the seeond story of the duplex apartment, and set hey down at the door of her own boudoir. “1 do work, truly,” he said, gravely. “Just because ) work at a desk is no sign that 1 don't do hard work. But [ never knew that the company of an old man like me would be missed hy my pretty little kitten.” As the other gitl had done, an hour before, Audrey held him by the shoulders. “You're NOT old!” she protested. “You won't be old {0 vears and years and years. And I'd rather be with you than with anybody else.” She slipped her torefi stood a moment, her vou ever get marrie want to get w wanted to marr; Morton's face contracted for a moment, as at a painfu thought, but in a moment he was smiling again. “Well, I've thought about it sometimes. Have YOU ?” He tilted her head, a crooked finger beneath her chim and Jooked a moment into her eyes, She turned her head away. Then, standing on tiptoe, she bestowed a swift kiss upon his cheek, and fied into her room. “Good night,” she called from behind the closed door. Thoughtfully Morton descended the stairs, and sank intc the big leather chair which always awaited him, in the living room. At three o'clock, he still itting there thinking. s into his vest pockets, and s cast to the floor. “Why didn't she resumed. “Didn’'t vou eves Jidn't you ever see anyone you PR For fifteen years. Harry Morton—and the girl Audrey- had interested the people of New Britain. When Morton first appeared there, early in the year 1910 with a little, blue-eyed, four-year-old girl holding tightly { his hand, he went direetly to the Burritt hotel, and engagec a suite of rooms—two hedrooms, and a sitting room. Almost at once he opened an office, with the sign: “Ian B. Morton, Broker,” on the door. Just what form of property he dealt in, his neighbor. in the building were not sure. What attracted their atten tion, and that of the folk in the lobby of the hotel, wa. that presently he appeared at the wheel of the largest anu showiest automobile in town. In this, on Sunday mornings and often of a week-day afternoon, he and the litth Audrew would speed away for long rides over the countr) roads. When he bought a house, it was notable, not for its size, but for the number of ser s that he installed in it. This was two years after his appearance in New Britain. By the stéhdards of New Britain, a home, equipped with two servants had a bit of grandeur about it. Morton en- caged four for his house in the outskirts«-a cook, a chaut feur, a housemaid, and a personal maid for the little zirl. Naturally, there was talk; a good deal of it. Just as naturally, much of the talk was unfriendly. IFolk in New Britain are just as apt to be suspicious o things and theories and people that they do not understand, as are the people on Main street, and in New York, and over the remainder of the globe. Nobody understood Morton. e continued his business, in his modest brokerage office, but New Britain never found out exactly what that business was. Once a fortnight, and sometimes once a weck, he made a journey to New York. Why he went, the most diligent searchers after truth were unable to learn. They knew he maintained an expensive apartment there, as well as his home in New Britain, Fvidently he had ample means. His bankers greeted him cordially; even with a little deference. Occasionally he dabbled a bit in local real estate. His motor cars were of the finest; the appointments of his houge were rich; the little girl Audrey always was dressed in fashions that came from Paris. The gossips heard, and agreed, that Morton was a bach elor; that the little girl was his adopted child; that he was close-mouthed about his past, and about his present, to a most astounding degree, and that he was the most attrac. tive figures among all the males of New Britain. Further than that, there was no agreement at all. Morton himself took no pains to solve any of their doubts. Indif ferent to the talk about him in the town, he went his own way, addressing compliments to such women as he knew, offering gay companionship and hospitality to the men ol his circle, giving generously to the Charity Chest drives. Thus it came about, in course of time, that the unfriend liness toward him in New Britain disappeared. The curiosi- ty, however, remained. On the day when he and Audrey returned from New York, a little crowd was gathered at the station to greet an incoming celebrity. Morton smiled as he noted that he aroused as lively an interest as the arriving notable. He waved a greeting to the crowd, and Audrey smiled and nodded, as they entered their automobile. “You're a regular prima-donna yourself,” she said to him. He laughed. “Some of these people are simply going t. oxpll:)de, some day, over the mystery of my visits to New York. “Why don't you tell them?” she asked. “Why should I,” he countered. A neat housemaid opened the door of their home, and dropped a curtsey. She had come not long before from England, and held to the manners of the English household where she had been bred. “Gentleman waiting to see you, sir,” she said. 4 3\lIorton strode into the study that led off the reception all. A man was sitting in an arm chair, beside the open fire. His head was sunk deep between his hunched shoulders, and his chin was on his breast. Audrey, looking over Mor- ton’s shoulder, saw him to be roughly dressed, and unpre- possessing in the extreme, as Morton pulled upon the sliding door. As the dood closed, she saw that the man 1ad not risen to his feet. She heard Morton say: “Now vou explain what vou're doing in my house.” (To Be Continued).