SHORT ©TORY NUMBER I S^C^ftibiishad. Mon.th.ly 6y 'QUJ/I Dri/ers'Club ' Of Ld-Ordngfe College

THE

Volume III LAGRANGE, GEORGIA, MARCH, 1924 Number 12

"THE ROAD TO THE LEFT" "Three leagues, then the road ran,

and turned into a puzzle .... David stood, uncertain for awhile, and then took the road to the left."—0. Henry.

A slip of yellow paper fell from nervously working fingers and rested lightly on the floor. But its few heavy words were driving like steel spikes into the inner section of How- ard Cohan's brain. Each thought hammered them deeper and deeper. Yet he could not stop thinking.

Thoughts would struggle even through the roar and den of heavy tumbling sounds and the deafening hollow ring of steel words beating at awful and regular intervals into his brain. Yet he jumped at the faint sound of a turning door knob. In- stantly in a panic of self conscious deceit he rattled the telegram into its hiding place.

"Was your business trip the best yet, Daddy-boy?" Virginia Coban called through the half opened door, her fluffy bobbed hair circled with silver ribbon. "And you may have a fine cozy evening all to yourself. Phil and I are going to the show.

Howard Coban did not move in his chair. Thrcugh the clatter and roar of his brain he could only hear him

Blf say uncertainly: "Phil?" "Oli, did 1 say Phil ? How foolish-

Dan." Here Virginia staged a well piacticed little laugh which grated harshly on her father's ear. "You wonld think I was deceitful. But you don't really care if I go with Dan now, do you, doai Daddy-boy?"

He did not answer. And she was gone.

Howard Coban was stunned in the wicck of his own life. He consider- ed the telegram as the post into which bo hid deliberately driven. The diz- ziness and ache of his brain slowly centeml into one thought, and that of Viiginia. He had positively for- bidden her going with Dan—and she had deceived him. He started from

his chair as if to call her back. De- ceit—where had Virginia learned that word ? He fell into his chair again, limp from utter helplessness. Howard Coban could answer his own question.

When accelerated mental suffering reaches to the highest point of hu- man endurance where to go on would be death, it sometimes recedes hasti- ly into an exhausted peace of mind. So Coban found himself strangely quiet.

And into the stillness and peace of his thoughts came the scene of his childhood. He was a boy again. He could almost feel the warm sunshine filtering through quiet green leaves of a giant oak that stood in the back yard of the little country home. The tree—strong, stately, immovable— was a playhouse for him then. It furnished swings, acting poles, hid- ing places, shelter and shade to nu- merous small boys through many summer days.

On one dark day, however, he climbed to the tip top of it when the wind was beating the branches wildly. Prom its swaying top he gained a rather distorted view of his small world—a view which was never to be quite clear again.

Just ten years old, shy and sensi- tive, he had played marbles under the tree in the back yard, with a lit- tle pal. They were not playing for keeps, but his friend had won and had kept. In angry tears Howard sought an older brother.

"A cock-eyed dog could fool you, Howard Coban," his brother said. "Everybody in the world is not going to ring tiue, and you needn't expect them to."

So Howaid climbed the tree to think it out. He had no idea what a cock- eyed dog was like, but the term made a terrible impression. He was not go- ing to be fooled by a cock-eyed dog. He was not going to have every one

laughing at him. He did believe peo- ple, but he could not any longer. He would be careful after this.

Howard Coban was spending an- other day of self-analysis. It was years later. He was looking for the truth. Always suspicious, never quite sure—he hated himself for be- ing that way.

He was in love, exquisite torture to him. But this involved his life and her life; he must be sure. He would think it out, try. it out, jury fashion, consider it from every point of view, and then decide. If this unsettled feeling kept on it would drive him mad. Coban laughed and wondered if anybody else in the world ever set- tled a love affair this way.

First, what made him like Nida Turner, he had thought about her for weeks in spite of all he could do. Well, Nida was attractive. She was almost beautiful. Nida was also bright and vivacious. She could talk well. She was original, and she was sensible. Coban knew all these things, he had figured them out before. Now he summed them up with a glowing face. Nida was certainly his ideal of a girl. He had never expected to find his perfect girl, and here she was; and above all, she seemed to like him. She chose him from all his frat. brothers to talk to that first night, he remem- bered, after he had sung a snatch of their new song. Finally, was she sin- cere? She was, he knew she was. He could talk to her five minutes and tell she was an extraordinary girl.

Coban's fingers rested on an un- opened letter. He was thinking of Nida Tanner so intently that he had even forgotten to open his mail.

"Cobe, while you're in Medford, you might meet up with an old friend, I might say the proverbial "old sweet- heart of mine." She is pretty—I al- ways fall for pretty ones—and just as attractive as she can be. But don't get caught, old man, she shoots the same line to every boy she meets. However, if you do see her, I know

(Continued on page 2, column 2)

G/>e SCROLL Published monthly by the Quill Driv-

ers' Club of LaGrange College.

Entered at Postoffice at LaGrange, Ga., as second class mail matter January 29, 1922, under the Act of March 3, 1879.

Subscription rate, fifty cents a se- mester.

Editorial Staff Mary Lane, '24 Editor-in-Chief Gladys Spruell, '25 __ Business Mgr. Agnes Porter, '25 Proof Reader Gertrude Strain, '26 Adv. Mgr. Grace Hale, 24 Cir. Mgr. Edith Foster, '26 Joke Ed.

COLLEGE DIRECTORY Class Presidents:

Senior Mildred Pinkerton Junior Bonnie Hale Sophomore Christine Stubbs Freshman Elizabeth Hodges

Organizations; Iranian Sara Brown Mezzofantian Mamie Northcutt Pres. Y. W. C. A— Mamie Northcutt Pres. Student body B. A. Teasley Pies. Athletic Ass'n _Miriam Spruell Pres Dramatic Club, Christine Stubbs

'SPRING"; HOLIDAYS"

"Spring"—season when all nature takes on new life, when a young man's (and woman's) fancy lightly turns to love; when flowers bloom, and balmy zephyrs stir the newly budded leaves; comes once a year.

"Holidays"—occasions when the regular routine of work is pushed aside; when school is the least of one's worries; when everybody in gen- eral, and you in particular turn every- thing loose, for one more good time. No set time for holidays; always come too seldom.

There you have somewhat elaborat- ed, the definition of "spring" and of "holidays." Then put the two to- gether and see what a glorious com- bination it makes! That's the bright rpot upon the horizon of every L. C. girl at present.

Christmas was great, but Spring Holidays will be greater. Summer will be wonderful, especially, for some. June, the month of Brides and Hoses. But Spring Holidays just naturally holds a greater thrill while they last. You aren't at home lone enough to cease to be company. "He" knows the time is short, and makss

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"The Road to The Left"

(Continued from first page) she lives in Medford now, tell her "hello" for me."

Coban at thirty-five was doing well in life, he told himself, in spite of his great faults. In fact he had pick- ed out those faults and worked dog- gedly against them. He thought he had triumphed, if only he could be sure. Occasionally the fear of a great calamity befalling him, due to his own short sightedness, his own inability to judge people about him. depressed him and almost wiped out his already shaken faith in others and in himself.

Coban walked miles in' the cool night air trying to shake off his de- pression, and trying to run away, if possible, from a new decision that confronted him. After all, he was doing well. His position with Ccle and Funt, Architects, was secure, he thought, and promising. Honest drudgery had won something for him. There were his family and his home. How proud he was of them! His wife had been a partner to him from child- hood. How suddenly he had realized her great worth, after he had return- ed .home from Medford and a great disappointment in another girl.

Coban thought of all this before he met the real question. That morn- ing he had been perfectly happy, now he was in the mire of indecision. An opportunity had come, an opportuni-

ty to leave the small town and go out to do bigger things. By chance he was offered the place of a retiring architect in Chicago. A representa- tive from the firm called on him that morning, painting in vivid colors this wonderful "piece of luck." It was a venture. If he did not make good, he would lose everything. The next morning he was to give his de- cision whether or not he would se- riously consider the place.

"It's too big a risk," Coban mut- tered to himself. "Too big a risk, Better to keep a safe middle course. No home, no position, no prestige! I have my family to think of. Why, I'd be a fool to seek gain at such a risk!

"But such an opportunity, exactly what I've dreamed of, what I've pray- ed for all these years, that I might give my wife and daughter the very best. It's too good to be true. Hang it! I don't know what to do!"

And Coban loathed himself for his indecision.

"A cock-eyed dog can fool you, Howard Coban." The words startled him. Did some one speak them? Or did they sound from an undercurrent of memory that echoed and re-echoed so distinctly at intervals in his life?

Yes, anybody could fool him. He writhed under the thought. Perhaps, after all, this "big chance" was only a smooth talking fellow sent down to enveigle him into some scheme. Coban could go to Chicago and make investigations himself, but blue prints were by far too urgent at this time to be left unfinished, unless, cf course, he was practically sure of making a change.

(Concluded on page 3. column 1)

"The Road to The Left"

(Continued from second page) The proposition appeared safe

enough on the surface. He knew the man who had spoken for him. Some of his plans had by chance shifted into the Chicago architect's hands, and been highly approved. But this easy going, smooth-lipped fellow was most too flattering. He was also in too big a hurry. Why did he want Coban's answer in the morning? Not a final answer, of course, but an approxi- mate one. It was almost the same. The man said a second appointee was already in view. Trying to scare Co- ban into the place, was he? Well, Coban would show him.

"A cock-eyed dog could fool you, Howard Coban," his lips murmured the words. "It's a lie! It's a lie! I'm not a fool." And Coban ground his heel on the pavement as he turned toward home.

Work, work, work for forty years brought Howard Coban a small for- tune. But he was growing weary of his labor. People wondered why he clung to the little town, the little of- fice, the little bungalow. His plans covered half the state. They were of a small type, however, he did not try for anything big. He had succeeded in a small way to be sure. The name in the newspapers of a famous Chica- go architect constantly reminded him of the success he might have made.

Then a second opportunity came. Coban decided at once. The more he put into it the more he would get out of it. Other fellows were getting rich, why could not he? His old age would be lonely, now, and he needed the comforts of the rich. He was especially anxious to give his moth- erless daughter every advantage pos-

s'hle. Questions of doubt came into his

mind but he crowded them back. For o-ce he would be strong! Besides, he felt that he deserved good for-

tur-e. It was six months later that he sat

nlone with the telegram in his hand. Virm>ia. his daughter, was out with Dan Sherrald, a fellow whom he heartily disliked, but he had been too worried and disturbed to stop her. For two hours he sat motionless, 1r.:-.km<r thinking, thinking.

He had felt this hour of darkness «id ruin approaching for years, but had hoped it was only a feeling. Now

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it was a reality! Once he faced a problem carefully, thoughtfully; he suspected the man who offered it; he kept to the safe course. Then he mussed the great opportunity of his life! Again he met an offer. This time he decided firmly, quickly, trust- fully. The telegram which he held was the answer, a yellow sheet of paper was is gain. With trembling, aged hand Coban read: "Blue Rib- bon mine sunk. Complete loss. Move details later."

It was useless to think back over

his past life, and analyze the causes of his failure. He could do this, he knew, for there were the reasons—in his own life. He blamed not one else. He had simply misjudged.

Once more he would begin, and this time .'*

A bell rang. Coban went to the door.

"Telegram," said a boy. "Dan and I were married at 8:40

p. m. Will write tomorrow from Chicago.

Virginia."

"Ne'er The Twain Shall Meet" Pork chops sputtered on the stove

for luncheon. Old Abram Rantor was suddenly missing from his chair be- side the window in his room. He left there less and less now, and never without the help of Joel, his servant.

"Mrs. Bruce, the old man's gone, he's nowhere to be found. He's not in his room!"

"Out somewhere, but I'll warrant not far," blurted Ronald Bruce.

A thorough search for the old man finally found him seated, stooped and shivering in the cold on the fire es- cape of the five-floor apartment.

"Mr. Rantor, you must come in. You will take all sorts of cold." urg- ed Joel, trying to pull him in. "and your spells will be lots worse."

"I can't stand it!" wailed old Abram, "I'd rather he'd cut my heart out than to make my daughter insult her religion and her God by that foul smell." The old man let him- self be pulled out of the cold into his room, weeping tears of weak, impor- tent old age.

"It's like my own heart was frying with them pork chops. It's been in- sults like this since that "schopshoff" persuaded my daughter, my own beautiful daughter, into marrying him. I can't stand to face my pure, good wife in Heaven when I let that insulter of my religion—own religion

(Continued on page 4. column 1)

'"Ne'er the Twain Shall Meet"

(Continued from third page) —desecrate my own daughter's house."

"Oi! Oi! Oi!" Old Abram sank into his accustom-

ed chair, his long, white beard fall- ing or. his chest as if his very heart had melted from utter despair.

Ronald Bruce never dreamed when he married Natacha Rantor two years before that his life and hers also would be tormented by that strange, outrageous belief of his father-in- law. He loved his wife for her beau- ty—her dark exotic beauty, but how was he to endure these nightly quar- rels?

Every meal proved harder to stand. Silence! the aching silence of old Abram, the high-tensioned silence of Natalka, and the tired silence of Ronald Bruce.

For two years old Abram had kept hosher—separate dishes of food, set at a separate end of the table. Old Martha, that melting pot of races, the cook, realized the necessity of two stoves in the kitchen, two shelves in the pantry. To Bruce this hosher business proved more tantalizing with every meal.

In course of one of old Aham's infrequent wanderings about the ap- artment, he chanced upon Bruce's watch. No doubt, Bruce had forgot- ten it that morning, thought the old man, but there was that crucifix.

Ronald Bruce was a Romanist and always the small crucifix hung on his watch chain.

"Pfine," was all the old man could say in regard to anything belonging to a "schophoff" like Bruce.

Bruce was earlier than usual that night from work, and he hoped that he could spend one night without the regular quarrel.

But as he entered, "Look! a hus- iand he i I Come to him, a snake in

the grass which bites the hand whal feeds him, that's what he is!" As usual, would life ever be a bit happy [or him ? Biuce came in to the room where his wife stood trying to calm her father. The stench of garlic as- sailed his nostrils! Always—that garlic!

Bruce frowned, amazed exclaimed: "There's something got to be done! I can:1 stand this! Either you leave or 1 leave!"

Nr.talka pleaded, her arms out

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stretched to her husband, "You won't turn my poor, dear father out of the house! You can't send him away— you can't! I won't let you!"

Bruce remained firm. He had gone his rope's end!

"Ai rail" Old Abram cried and commenced to rack anew.

"Sniff! sniff!"

"Oh, my God, there's that ham again! Ham in my daughter's house! Oi! Oi! Oi!"

Beating his chest wildly, he strug- gled to the floor, and unsteady though he was, he managed to reach the open window, leading out onto the fire escape—a refuge for his tortured heart.

"Oi! Oi! Oi!" Natalka rushed over to catch her

father's arm to hold him back; but oh I Old Aham stumbled, falling falling against the railing, and fell. A horrible sight! Seeing her father fall, she screamed and rushed wildly down the stairs, followed by Bruce.

She saw her father—a broken heap —on (he side walk outside. Turning quicklj to her husband, she exploded with all her wrath, "You brute—ycu —you've killed my father! Go! I never want to see you again! No— never!"

Bruce left but he knew net where Amazed, stunned, he walked bloc!; af- ter block towards—what?

A year later Ronald Bruce was summoned by Natalka to come to her home with her lawyer to attend to ~ome details concerning a divorce. He and tho lawyer ascended the tails of the Rosedale apartments.

The doer to the fifth fleor apartment opened. Mrs. Bruce, sad faced, tired and hollow-eyed, sat staring out the window.

The cry of a tiny baby from av. adjoining rocm, came to them a; they entered. Buice started, turned and ran towards the

Ho Fell down bcride the ' I

awkwardly—yet tenderly placed his aims about the child. Trembling with a strange feeling, he knew that this child was his. His broad shoulders unable to bear this sudden burden. Then—a hand was laid gently upon his shoulder. Immediately the shak- ing ceased, and Bruce looked up into the face of his wife.

Somehow Bruce was passionately drawing Natalka to him, "Natalka, my own little wife, my darling!" They clung to each other like two frighten- ed children. All thoughts of divorce had vanished.

For several days Bruce was really happy, the first time he had been happy for nearly three years. But suddenly—like a boomerang—"Today —one year ago—my poor dear father died! Oh, that miserable death!" came to him from the lips of Natalka. Silence! Silence—hiding the dread- ful surges of torture arising in Bruce's brain! Would Old Abram ev- er crease to be a destroyer of their happiness ?

li th3 cooi moonlight his lip- were white,

While hers were vivid carmine shade; Our hero felt the call to arms, And joined the colors, unafraid.—Ex.

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"CINNAMON TOAST" Sea-gray eyes lifted to the reflec-

tion of a face, delicate as an exotic flower; the late morning sun shooting arms of gold through masses of hair, burnished copper; skin velvety soft glowing, coral pink; shapely hands held up for the inspection of nails, polished a delicate rose. The effect corresponded to a string of pearls dangling from an open jewelry box.

Sheila Colburn was conscious that the luster and tints of pearls suited her unusual type of beauty as did nothing else. There was never the tiniest Haw in her appearance. She was careful of that. The ruling pas- don of her life was for flawless pearls and flawless pearls demand a flawless setting.

;le other children had romped and played Sheila Colburn had walk- ed slowly along the seashore, search- ing for shells which to the child look < 1 like pearls.

Most girls seal their engagement ith a diamond, but Anthony Col-

burn had slipped a creamy pearl on iheila'i slim, white finger. She had

said it looked like a large, glistening tear. Once married it had become Arithsiqrs custom to give his wife a

'ect pea.l each birthday and Christmas. Sheila would accept no other gift.

Resting her elbows on her dressing table, she gazed intently at a dainty iittle calendar, for a moment. Only two weeks until her birthday. A smile of anticipation curved her lips.

A single large pearl was needed to complete her string. Anthony should have purchased it by now. The pearls would make their initial appearance at her birthday dinner. She had al- ready made out her lists of guests for the occasion.

Absently the woman picked up a biush. Anthony's! She laughed a brittle little laugh. No one really understood Sheila Colburn until she was heard to laugh. Hers was the laugh of a twentieth centry Lucretia Borgia. How like Anthony to have some personal effect in her room. It was detestable, having ones pri- vacy invaded in such a manner. How had she ever imagined herself fasci-

' nated with the big, practical man. At the age of twenty-eight Sheila Col- bum found herself disillusioned,

I unhappy. That she could leave her husband never occurred to her. To leave comfort and luxury was un- thinkable. After all she caied for An- 1 :ny, no doubt, as much as it was in her complex nature '-o care for any one.

A tinv clock chimed the hour.

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Sheila started slightly. Her intend- ed shopping tour had been almost forgotten.

An hour later an exquisitely dri ed woman stood entranced before Tiffany's windows. Delicate hand fluttering to quickly beating heart, lialating nostrils, daikening eyes, half-parted lips, heightning color, in- dicated that a string of magnificent, perfectly matched pearls, was the ob- ject of her gaze. Somehow she found herself inside the store.

"The pearls—what price?" she gasped in a voice she hardly recog- nized as her own.

"$10,000, Madam, and quite a bai gain at that. They are part of a famous string of pearls which was divided to settle an estate," came the reply.

Shelia left the store in a daze. A friend passed and spoke, chee; ily. The greeting was not returned. $10,- 000! Her private account amounted to a bare $2,000. Vaguely she re- membered that Anthony had been strangely depressed of late. His busi- ness was not going well. No matter! She must possess those pearls, at any price. Suppose they were sold that day. Her steps quickened. She must hurry home and think out some plan.

The fragrant aroma of Anthony's special brand of Havana's filled her nostrils as she opened the door. An- thony home to lunch! That was un- iLinil. For once she was glad.

Anthony Colburn was standing be- fore an open window, gazing medi- tatively out into the street. He was a large man, but his shoulders droop- ed, and as he turned to greet his wife, his steel blue eyes had a strain- ed, weary look. He too, was disil- lusioned. Sheila had long- ago killed his love for her, and had left a sting in its place.

"Sick again, I suppose, Anthony.'' Sheila feverishly removed her gloves. "I didn't know you would be home to lunch, and gave the cook today off."

"It doesn't matter," he told her, listlessly. "I'm not particularly hun- gry. Came home to get that insur- ance policy. The premium falls dun tomorrow and I haven't got the mon- ey to meet it. I've decided to cancel it and take out another when busi- ness gets better," he sighed heavily.

"I can make you some cinnamon toast and tea," his wife offered. She

a nervous necessity for occupy- ing her time while she thought of

(Continued on page 6, column 1)

Cinnamon loast (Continued from fifth page)

some way • to obtain the pearls. "There's some cold chicken and a salad, too, in the refrigerator," she added, going toward the kitchenette.

Anthony raised his eyebrows in surprise. It was unusual for Shelia to perfonn the smallest service for him.

Shelia saw a broken wine glass on the pantry shelf, when she reached for the box of cinnamon. How care- less and untidy of the cook. What was that story she had just read of Maupassant's—with cakes—split open —broken glass—

The toast was soon prepared, and Anthony deciding that he "was rath- er hungry, after all," ate heartily. His wife had eaten a late breakfast and did not care for lunch.

"The sugar seems unusually coarse," he remarked, as he ate his cinnamon toast.

"Yes, I noticed it this morning," Sheila replied." I must see that some more is ordered before dinner.

Dr. Gray bent over the prostrate form of Anthony Colburn. A nurse, crisp and efficient, stood near. Sheila looked on pale but entirely composed.

"Gastritis again, Mrs. Colburn. It's taken an acute turn—I'm afraid—. The doctor's face set in lines of de- feat.

Shelia's beauty bloomed afresh in the most fashionable of mourning. "(Jiief stricken—so brave—poor girl —bears up wonderfully—" was the concensus of opinion among friends.

It had not taken long to collect her hufband's insurance policy. The com- pany in which the policy had been laken had a home office in the city in which Sheila resided.

The wonder, the unearthly glory of the pearls—-the pearls. They caught and held the splendors of the sun

. the sunset, the Orient, and re- flected a thousand lights. Sheila slip- ped them through her burning fing- ers, again and again, with voluptuous delight. The cool, smooth, siiky feel of them! Holding them to her breast she sat and crooned softly to them as to a child. Her eyes shone wit!; an elfish gleam.

The scrub woman stood in the hall talking to the elevator boy, in a loud v.-hi per.

"De Doctor's in dar, now. I so:il

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for him, myself. Dat air woman's | been er settin' in dare lookin' at dem' white things dese here fo' days. I Talkin' to 'em and a laughin' like a | crazy purson. The cook say she ain't et nothin' since her husband died. I j tell you she bad off."

The nurse followed the doctor out of the room.

"A plain case of malnutrition, Miss Bert. Husband's death, no doubt, brought on this nervous disaster. Bet- ter keep those pearls out of her sight."

Sheila sat up weakly, gazing about with a glassy stare. The pearls— where were they? Rising unsteadi- ly she tottered to the dressing table. There they were safe in her jewel box. She chuckled softly. Looking furti- vely over her shoulder Sheila reached for the pearls with trembling fingers. In doing so, she brushed off a ther- mometer, which fell to the floor.

breaking with a thin shattering sound. The string broke as the pearls caught on the edge of the jewelry box, and they rolled at Sheila's feet. As she clutched for them madly, particles of the broken thermometer stuck to her hands.

The nurse entered the room softly. "Mrs. Colburn, you really must get back in bed—."

Sheila began to cry. Her eyes were those of a disappointed, frightened child, as she picked the bits of glass from her fingers. "I didn't grind it fine enough," she whimpered.

We have just heard of a man with a very tender heart. Here is what he wrote on one occasion:

"Dear Mrs. Rich: Your husband can't come home today, because his bathing suit was washed away."

"P. S.—Your husband was inside of it."—Ex.

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'Wedding Preparations Resumed" Boxes upon boxes of hot-house

flowers were piled around; men and women hurried to and fro, and with touch after touch seemed to trans- form the rooms into houses of beauty. The spacious old house took on mys- tical airs. There was a delicious odor coming from the back of the house where marvelous things were being put into and taken out of the oven.

Even from the outside of the Spenc- er home one would think that some- thing was going to happen. But ev- ery one in the sleepy little Southern town was wide awake to the fact that Carol Spencer and Rodney Copeland were to be married the next day at high noon.

any All

the fact that Carol was not at one of her usual visiting places, of her friends were at Ida's; no one had seen carol in the down-town stores. Yes, Mrs. Spencer was pro- voked, but she soon became alarmed. She called the bank and Mr. Spencer came home. The town was searched, but Carol was not found. One small, engraved card was found near the station by a little boy. But it might have been dropped there days before.

Not only was the Spencer house- hold upset, but the entire little town; and especially Rodney Copeland. The police were notified and a detective wired for. Wedding preparations were stopped and Mrs. Spencer took

Some one came down the steps and': to her bed. every worker paused to glance at the The afternoon passed, and the night neat, handsome figure of Carol. But without bringing Carol. Police search- only the modiste, who came from an j ed neighboring roads and villages. An inner room at that time, noticed that abandoned coupe, with tires and li- :he wore a dark tailored suit and a soft hat to a luncheon given in her honor. To Miss Latimer she looked as if she were dressed for travel, in- stead. She wondered—but Miss Lati-

cense tag gone, was found not ten miles away. Without doubt, it had belonged to Carol. The gray uphols- tering and rose curtains, yes it had belonged to Carol. And Mrs. Spencer

pretend to be pretentious. But these things told very little, and the girl herself seemed to know nothing more; or she was uncommunicative.

"Going to lunch?" Number 22 came out of the dressing room behind El- len Gray, and the two went together to Mr. John's for a quick lunch.

A sandwich and a cup of tea isn't much over which to go into raptures, but two very attractive young girls were evidently enjoying such a lunch. Every one in Mr. John's remarked that they looked very happy. They were laughing more than usual—in- deed, Number 22 remarked after- wards that it was the first time she had seen new little Ellen Gray really laugh.

They hadn't noticed the stranger at the next table looking their way. They hadn't noticed either that he glanced from them to something ho held in his hand. They were aston- ished when this grave-looking man came up to them.

"I beg your pardon; I am Detective McAfee and I am now handling a very peculiar case. I cannot give you all of the details, but you—" he nodded towards Ellen—"bear such a resem- blance to the picture of the person I am trying to find that [ \onld like to ask you a few ques.'.ons." He showed them the picture ;—the exact likeness of Ellen—and suit-ly the lit- tle gray hat she wore was the same as the one pictured. But the names; the girl in the picture was Miss

mer was busy finishing Carol's trous- recognized the little gray glove j Carol Spencer; and certainly the de- found in the foot of the car, Carol s i tective couldn't question Ellen's own seau and she dismissed these

thoughts—until later. "I must beg yoah pardon, Mis'

Spencer, fo' botherin' yo', but—" faithful old John paused and Mrs. iipcncer, noticing the anxious look in his eyes, said:

"What is it, John; what has hap- pened ?"

"NothhY Mis' Spencer, if yo' know where Mis' Carol is.'' The darkey's kind old face looked hopeful as he made this suggestion.

"Oh! she went to a luncheon at Ida's."

"Yas'am, dat's what we thought, 'ccpt Mis" Ida, she done called up an' lol' us dat Mis: Carol, she ain't got dere yit."

"But she left an hour ago." Mrs. Spencer was provoked by Car-

ol'i ur.thoughtfulness, surely; but plainly discourteousness. She could- n't remember the time when Carol had deliberately broken an engage- ment.

Soveial telephone calls disclosed

initials were on the inside of it. The anxiety increased and it was

a sad, nervous Rodney who met the New York detective the next after- noon. Investigations and futile at- tempts of attending to business mat- ters occupied the ensuing weeks.

name. But Ellen was unable to an- swer some of the questions:

"When were you born?" "Are your parents living?" "Where did you live before com-

ing here?" "Have you ever worked before . Number 22 gasped when she heard

There was something about the new girl in the big Lorell-Nixon de- partment store which made it impos- j sible to merely ignore or overlook her. Lorell-Nixon had long been the leading department store in the big, bustling western city and many peo- ple noticed the new clerk. Perhaps some even came the second time just to see her. She had been there only three months, and she was different from the other girls.

No one, not even the manager, knew much about her. To be sure, on the register was her name, Ellen Grav; her age, 21; and her boarding place, Miss Blair's, which didn't even

(Continued on page 8. column 1)

Dr. G. W. EASON DENTIST

LaGrange, - Georgia

A Well-Wisher of The College

Dr. PARK, Dentist

" Wedding Preparations Resumed"

(Continued from seventh page) Ellen herself say that she didn't know; she couldn't remember back further than—.

But the time was up, and the two clerks hurried back to their work.

Detective McAfee went to his room in the hotel, after he had wired Mr. Spencer that he had at last found a clue. A few minutes of thought made him decide that, in some unknown way Ellen Gray was Carol Spencer. But how ? She was not secretive in her movements. Mr. Spencer was a man of means, and his only daughter could have what she pleased without working in a department store. Mc- Afee's mind went back to the inter- view in Mr. John's. Ellen Gray had said she couldn't remember back fur- ther than—but she hadn't finished. There had been cases when a person had lost his memory and had become estranged from his family. That could be so in this case.

McAfee left the hotel and walked far out into the country. He wanted to think—to decide on a definite plan of action.

Late that afternoon McAfee, with jaw set firm, entered the Western Union office. He was taking a big risk.

The next morning the following telegram brought a cry of joy from receiver: Mr. Robert L. Spencer:

Have found her. Come. McAFEE.

Only four words; but what mean- ing!

Again the little Southern town was disturbed. In less than six hours every inhabitant knew that Carol Spencer had been found.

The Spencers and Rodney Cope- land were overwhelmed with joy. They made hurried preparations for a trip to the state across the con- tinent, where they expected to find Carol. The trip was tiresome; the train hardly seemed to move to these three people.

McAfee met them and took them to the hotel, all the w.ay trying to answer the questions which the three

"DAUGHTERS OF THE RICH"

STRAND THEATRE Thursday and Friday,

March 27-28

CLEANING and PRESSING For College Customers

KEY-STUCKEY CO.

had asked simultaneously. "Where is she?" He explained to them that Carol

probably wouldn't know them; that now her name was Ellen Gray; that they were not to let her know that they were the Spencers; and finally, they to treat her as a mere acquain- tance.

The most elaborate private dining room in "The Clement" was being prepared for five guests. The orders had been vague—the best dining room and the best dinner. The waiters did not know who the guests were to be, but they had visions of money dress- ed like people.

The dinner was very formal, no one knew just what to say. Mrs. Spencer wanted to cry out:

"Carol! my own child!" Mr. Spencer wanted to ask this El-

len Gray who her parents were. Rodney Copeland longed to take

the girl into his arms and claim her as his own.

McAfee tried to be tactful, he tried to guide the conversation away from the main object of the dinner.

Ellen Gray herself was the only one of the group who was at ease. She understood that these people, the Hales, were friends of Mr. McAfee's from Chicago and that he had mere- ly wanted her to meet them.

When Ellen was left at Miss Blah's, McAfee felt that all.of it had been a failure. But the Spencers knew that this girl was their daugh- ter. They did not think any difficulty might hinder them from claiming her.

It was Rodney who suggested the nerve specialist.

The gieat surgeon came from the operating room and answered the un- asked questions of the four people who were waiting.

"Yes, it is only a matter of a few

hours now, and then a week or two of rest. The fall must have been a hard one. When did it happen, and how?"

None knew. The doctor stated that his patient

must not be disturbed until the next day, and the four left the hospital.

At five the next afternoon, Rod- ney was back at the hospital. He felt selfish because he had come without the others. The time set to come had been fixed, but he had rather be there sooner.

It happened that the patient was better than had been expected, and Rodney was allowed to see her.

He paused before room 4, then he entered the door. The girl glanced at him —

"Rodney!" Ellen Gray was Carol Spencer. The newspaper story covered sev-

eral columns in the little southern town paper.

Wedding Preparations Resumed Miss Carol Spencer, prominent

young lady of this city, who myste- i riously disappeared several months ago, has been found.

Miss Spencer left her home on the morning before the day set for her marriage to Rodney Copeland, to go to a luncheon. When near the rail- road station Miss Spencer got out of her car to examine a tire. She fell, hitting her head against the car, and in a dazed condition left town on a train, stopped at the station then. The fall resulted in a complete loss of memory and Miss Spencer knew nothing of her former life when dis- covered by Detective R. S. McAfee, of New Yoik City. She recovered her memory, however, after a rerious brain operation.

Her wedding preparations are now eing rerumed, etc.