If To-morrow Comes

Auckland Star, Volume LXX, Issue 99, 29 April 1939, Page 13 (Supplement)

If To-morrow Comes

Serial Story

Ann's face betrayed her astonishment w'hen Merry introduced Worth. Merry elt a quick -of pride. Worth hunter! Of course, Ann knew about lim. Everyone did. Ann acknowledged the introduction vith gracious serenity. Merry and Worth left at once. Tn the >ar they sat a moment grazing into each other's eyes in rapt adoration. At lonj; last Worth laughed gently. 'A\here to? I mean—l suppose we must ro somewhere . . . Sitting here in front >f the house " He extended his land in smilinjr helplessness. Merry siphed. Then, as one does, iwakeninjr from a beautiful dream to •ad reality. "Oh, Worth! I forgot!" ■lie said. "It probably isn't safe for us :o j" i anvwhere now." "Why V' "lou saw John's arm?" She went on rorn there, givinjr in detail all that had happened last night. "So you see," she inished. "There may be some one watching us right now—the real murlerer."

SYNOPSIS. wifh J 1 ® 01 * J l .?" 1 ® from a roadhouM I with Merry Milhntgon, Basil Norton ia f the occupant of a car which ■ collided with his. A police officer J Hnd» Merry with Basil's oody and ' •tart* to headquarters with her. Worth Hunter plans a fake hold-up to rescue Merry from her drunken escort. 1 Seeing her with the officer, Worth makes the hold-up, anyway, thinking t to save her from disgrace. This makes the police certain Merry is implicated in the murder and the 1 ■fflnm ii «f ho r » Bcu ®<l her Is an i accomphce Merry's half brother, John and his pretty girl-friend, Ann, manage to take the incriminating bent fender, damaged in the collision at the murder scene, from the murderer, who, however, shoots John in the arm. .'h!T® rry ?. nd Mr » Millinqton patch up the wound and get. a doctor. Then the two girls discover that the fendor i« missing from the car in the garage! ♦ ♦ ♦ + Chapter XVII. ITELEN MILLINGTON had i 11 risen that morning physically rested but with a heavy heart. She knew she must find out what John had done, who had shot him. Yet she dreaded to know. Slip was Fitrpr wc<l to discover him shaving before the bathroom mirror when she on run out. "John !" she exclaimed. "You shouldn't l>o tip!" "I'm 0.K." He pave her a side-long glance and i'ont iuued to shave. She stood in the door looking up at him, wondering if she lovefi him timch as she would have loved a son of her own and believing ehe did. He wn<* like her own. l[ed been only a baby when she'd married his father. Now— an inaudible sigh escaped her—she felt utterly inadequate before this man he had become. 'I his eelf-suflicient man standing here shaving, turning aside her solicitude. She_ couldn't ask him now, so she went into the kitchen and reamed orange juice—orange juice for four. This girl, Ann. Helen comforted herself with "the thought of her. She had watched John and Ann last night. There had been so much confusion, and yet she had seen little tilings—a look, a touch, tilings unspoken, thi* early shave. If it were true that Ann was John's girl—that they loved each other—then she need no longer worry about John himself. A girl with clear eves and tranquil brow, a girl who had the presence of mind to do as she had done last night. She heard John in the hall and watched him walk uncertainly back to the bedroom, heard him drop upon the bed. She hurried in to pull off his clippers and help arrange his pillows. His lips were white. "Not eo good yet?" she smiled. He shf>ok his head. "I got dizzy." She allowed him to rest before bringing his tray and then waited in the kitchen until he'd eaten. If the girls would only stay in bed until she could talk to him! It was for this she had risen ahead of them.The tray was empty. Helen took it to the kitchen and returned to sit beside John's bed. She sat quietly, her grey eye# questioning him. John shifted uneasiW. He reached out and patted one of her hands awkwardly.

"You're—swell," he said. "Yon don't know what it s about, and still vou w act like you trust me ... " His unin- f< jured hand toyed with one of her slim. H well-manicured fingers. "You—haven't h: ordered me to explain—you haven't— even asked—" w Helen smiled frankly. "Do I have to ask?' Her voice was low. ef "No! ' Ho sat up, leaning on his right o elbow. "1 did get in a mess. But I'm not ashamed, Mother. It was for Merry . . . ' '

By - - : Agee Hays <!

He told her, told her all that Ann had h related to Merry the night before. > fi The girls wero wiping dishes when „ Worth 'phoned. '"[ want, to see you," he said, "if I ha\e to throw out a dozen Bob Fosters to do it. I have to go back to-morrow, you know." -Merry, her heart skipping dizzilv, laughed. "I'll throw them all out, invsell! The whole dozen!"' Worth chuckled. "(!ood. That'll save time! lloiv soon can it be? How soon and how long?" l'or a moment Merry thought of Ann. Ann wouldn't care. Ann and John would be glad. Probably now John, who eat in an overstuffed cliair, his arm in a sling, his eyes lighting every time Ann appeared in the doorway—probably now lie was aching to be alone with her just a* much as Merry ached to be with Worth. "Any time," Merry eaid. "You don't know what you're saving, lady! I'm halfway to the door now!" Merry hung up feeling almost guilty that with such danger hanging over those she loved, she could be so utterly happy. In all of the excitement since rdie had left the reunion dance last night (was it only last night?) she had forgotten to worry about Worth's cryptic 'phone call, his brief, low-toned regret that he would mi.ss seeing her. Now as she rushed to tell Mother and Ann she wondered again what had kept Worth last night. But she didn't worry now. It wasn't important now that she would see him so soon. "Do you mind how long I'm gone, Mother?'' she pleaded, little stars gleaming in her eyes, her face radiant with eagerness. Helen pondered. "Not if Ann wouldn't mind staying with John a while. I promised the Bentleys I'd go out to West Lynn with them this afternoon." Merry raced to her room, but not before she had seen Ann's smile. "Bless, her!" she whispered. "Bless Mother! She's doing it purposely. How can she be so wise and understanding!" Five minutes later Worth was at the front door, lior hands furtively, kissing her with his eyes. "I want you to meet my brother John," she whispered, "but don't ask him about his arm." Worth and John greeted each other with mutual interest. Merry went after Ann to introduce her, too. "We'll all be one family some day," she told herself. "I hope." The great happiness which she had felt swelling within her subsided abruptly. 1

<s> They turned apprehensive eyee toward the hi;rh laurel hedje across the street, toward the shrubbery in every visible yard. It, was a quiet autumn afternoon with hrijrht leaves wafting slowly and, like justice, arriving unnoticeablv but inevitably. Worth starc<l at the drift of them in the street ahead. "Well," he said at last, "that makes what I have to tell you all the worse." Merry caught her breath, bracing herself for it and waited. Worth drove away, turning aimlessly at the first corner. "I jrucss you might as well know. I was ready to tell you to give yourself up and I would. I made a hypothetical case of it to dad. .Tust said: 'Suppose this blonde they talk about isn't guilty, etc., etc.' Dad said even if she was. acquitted people are funny. Some of them read all the bloody details, but don't read the part where she was found not guilty. A lot of them suspect her anyhow—you know that old saying about where there's smoke, there must be lire . . . That's the trouble. It would be a mess for you always." "I know. Timt's what Mother says. I suppose when I am 40 people will etill

; say: "Let's see. Isn't that the woman r who wa« tried for murder once?'" i Merry shuddered a little. ' "That's it, but, listen. Remember last night, when I called you?" 1 "And said you couldn't come to the dance ?" t "Yes. Did you notice I was almost whispering into the 'phone? Well, Sue Williams was there. And, Merry, she " paw us together out at Palm Gardens. ' She remembered the dress you wore. She " knows you're the one the police are looking for." ; "Oh!" she murmured almost inaudibly > and snuggled closer to Worth. ' "You see, it's kind of complicated. She > mw us coming in from the garden that night. She knows I've changed toward her since. She tried to get me to tell i her what your name was. She'd forgotl ten. She was determined to go with me ; last night. That's why I didn't go. You > see, I wouldn't have had to take her, - but—well, I know Sue. She'd have followed me and found you. So I took her

<s> to a movie. Rut—" he hesitated, realising that Merry was only half lietening. He followed her startled gaze. "Worth,"' she gasped. "That car! It's following us, I know. It appeared from somewhere just after we left the house. It's turned every corner we have. Look! It's gaining on us now. It's oh, Worth!" Realisation drained the blood from her face. ♦ ♦ + ♦ Chapter XVIII. WORTH slowed the car down. "Well, it's Sue's coupe. She's trailed me. I might have known she would. She's found out where you live, so," he shrugged helplessly. "We haven't anything to hide from her, now. Let's see what she wants." He pulled over to the kerb and waited. Sue's cream-coloured coupe bore down upon them. Sue was alone and hatless, as if .she had come in r great hurry. Merry's heart thumped strangely. She tried to think what she

would do, what she could say to this girl who had high-hatted her bo effectively at Palm Gardens. She was at Sue Williams' mercy now. As Sue drew alongside she stared long and triumphantly from Worth to Merry and then with a twisted smile, a nod and a wave, drove on. She hadn't actually stopped! They sat utterly astonished, watching her disappear. "What's she going to do?" Merry asked at last. Worth shook his head. "I wish I knew." Even as he said it, he realised that he did know. He knew Sue. "Will she go to the police?" He was silent a moment. "No," he said finally. "Not to-day, anyway. Not until—" Merry looked up quickly. "Until what?" Worth coloured. "Until she—has thought it over." He became abruptly gay. "Now that there's no danger from Susie, let's think about supper." They were silent climbing the hill and silent locking the car. "Hi, Worth!" a masculine voice called

from a parked car. "Who's that? Oh, Tommy! How are you, fella?" Worth answered. Inside, it was the same. It seemed to Merry, who was worried and frightened, that all eyes were upon them and everyone recognised Worth. Worth replied to salutations warmly and carelessly. "There's one table that's eort of curtained off out here," he told Merry in a low tone as he piloted her to the glass-encloeed porch, "if it's only vacant." Even as they approached, the occupants of that table emerged opportunely and left., "Luck's with us," he whispered. Merry's emotions were too mixed, her thoughts too absorbed for her to even notice the food that was placed before them. She had eeen two men come in and git at the table just behind that curtain. They were at Worth's back. Sometimes they even touched the curtain. But all she could flee was their feet. What were two men doing up there alone? Was it significant that they had sat where they did? "Now that we have a murderer stalking us," Worth had said. Merry shivered. "Here, here!" Worth protested, leaning across the table toward her, "this is a celebration. We're forgetting all our troubles—or were there any? Of course not. It was two other people who were fussing around about something." Merry, looking at the swirl of his hair away from its perfect part, at the clear bronze skin and sparkling eyes, on down to his broad, well-tailored figure, wondered how it happened that one man should be so terribly much handsomer than all of the others in the world. "There, that's better," Worth commended, as the eight of him brought added colour to her cheeks, added lustre to the depths of her blue eyee. "I was thinking how—everybody noticed us when we came in, Worth. Do vou—" "Why wouldn't they? Did it ever occur to you that »ost of those fellows had never teen you before?" "Meaning?" she half-smiled, expecting a joke. "Meaning, well, I don't know what I mean, because after all, they would

look harder the second time they »w you than the first." The twinkle left his eyes, and he spoke softly, with a serious catch in his voice. "You are so lovely, Merry, sometimes I wonder if you know how beautifnl yon are. So —oh, there aren't any words to express you. The only words I know have been used on ordinarily beautiful women. But you—" He shook his head in wonder. Merry smiled a little incredulous, indulgent smile. "Thank you, kind sir," she spoke lightly. Since she could remember, boys and men had told her she was beautiful. It didn't occur to her that they did not tell every girl the same thing. She had accepted it as a part of their gallantry as universal as tipping their hats, as rising -when a lady —any lady—entered the room. Helen Millington, aware long ago of the singular loveliness of her daughter, had contrived to help her away from self-consciousness, to give her a sense of value deeper than beauty of face and form. The result had been a brea Si-taking inner beauty to match the outer and a serene unawareness of them both. It was befpre this that Worth bowed now —inarticulate. Worth Hunter, whose readiness of tongue had won him honours in law college, would always win him honours and success—except in one instance—in an instance which would lead them both into depths of suffering —an instance which loomed ahead of them, waiting to alter their lives. "Have you ever looked at the river and the lights from here?" Wo-th asked. They shifted their chairs until they were facing the open window. On it? sill their hands met. With heads together, they gazed down, down. A waitress, standing just beyond them, clattered a dish againot a tray. Merry felt a sudden longing to be away from these lights, to be alone with Worth, to feel his arms about her again, his lips on hers. As they left, she looked hack to the other side of the curtain where the two men had been sitting. To her relief they were already gone, their dishes cleared away. How foolish her imagination was, building hazards out of nothing, seeing murder in the disinterested eyes of every stranger, betrayal in the greetings of friends. They must have left while she and Worth watched the lights. "I keep wondering about Sue Williams," she confessed as they entered the car. "Why did she do it? What will she do now ?" Worth pondered. Without wanting to admit it, he knew Sue Williams had been deeply hurt by his change toward her, how deeply even he could not realise. She wanted him to know she had learned his secret, that she knew what she had only suspected before. "I don't believe she'll do anything till she sees me," he said finally. "And I'm leaving for Eugene to-night." They forgot Sue, forgot everyone but each other, in the bliss of being together alone. It was only about 11 when Worth brought Merry home. His train left at midnight. There was a car parked in front of the Lewises across the street. Neither Merry nor Worth sensed any menace from it until brisk footsteps I sounded behind them on the walk, until L the dark form of a man loomed close beside them and a voice said, "Is this Merry Millington ?" Merry's heart leaped into her throat. » She clutched Worth's arm to steady ! herself. "\es," she answered in a small voice. He was so close now she could see his dark uniform. A policeman! 1 "Do you know this person, Miss Millington ?" The big officer's tone was j* slightly ironical, somewhat triumphant. [ He turned his flashlight directly upon ! the face of the person in the shadows. 1 As Merry looked up into that face. the invisible hand of horror clamped ' itself tightly over her mouth, stifled her words, cut off her breath. (Continued Next Week.) L