THE SILVER LINING.

Waipa Post, Volume 44, Issue 3183, 28 May 1932, Page 2 (Supplement)

THE SILVER LINING.

SERIAL STORY.

CHAPTER 111. Looking back upon her entry into thirty days of prison life, Joyce Moore decided that the first ten days were the hardest. For by the eleventh she was becoming enured to her weirdly circumscribed routine. She was even becoming practised with the scrubbing brush and the ineffaceable cellhouse odour was no longer nauseating to her. It was even with some satisfaction that she admitted to herself that she no longer missed her drinks. Altogether something of a new spirit for this spoiled heiress who found herself wafted, hocus pocus, into gaol as a common drunk under the casual name of Mary Kane. A dozen times she had been on the point of blurting out her real identity after her brain cleared in the prison dormitory, and of promoting a speedy release. But the thought of the shame and the furore the exposure would cause silenced her each time. Pride won over the revulsion at her plight. However, to prevent an embarrassing general alarm she sent, by runner, a note to her uncle. This note blandly informed Uncle Michael that she was sojourning at an unnamed swanky sanatorium, of her own choice, recuperating from the social whirl; and would the dear old soul please respect her privacy since she pledged to return about the 17th of the following month.

Much of Joyce’s resolution to stick it out was due to the heartening example of another inmate, Kate Flynn. It would have been unendurable if it hadn’t been for Kate Flynn. Kate was a relatively plain creature, but she was the admirable kind who mothered you. Hers was a case that opened Joyce’s eyes to the sacrifices which exist among the lowly. For Kate was “taking a rap” that she had no need to. She had been with a Mrs O’Brien, who lapsed into a bit of shoplifting, and Kate had taken the entire blame because Mrs 0 Brien would have had to leave a crippled little boy helpless if she went to gaol. A fact which soon developed to shock Joyce was that these people were tenants in her own badly rundown tenement properties. The fact itself came to light with the arrival of Larry Clark, the crusading young lawyer, at the prison to interview Kate Flynn. “Here’s Larry Clark, a square guy who’s happiest when he’s getting some poor soul out of a jam,” was Kate s way of introducing him to Joyce. “Maybe he’ll get you out of here it you ask him.” Larry Clark! Joyce was almost moved to hysterical laughter. So this was her Nemesis. But not bad-looking at that. „ , “Talk to you later, Mary Kane, he said, with ‘a mere nod toward her. “ After I get Kate Flynn to sign this affidavit.” “ Suffocated to do it ! Kate said, taking the pen in hand. “Hope you collect every dollar of _ the. hundred thousand Mrs O’Brien is suing for. _ “I’ve made it good and strong, said Clark, “exactly as you described the accident to little Bobby m that rat hole of a tenement.” “Rat hole is right,” Kate confirmed “And it takes something like this to make chiseling landlords like Joyce Moore sit up and take notice.” “By the way, we have her on the run already,” Larry advised. “She’s hiding out somewhere, dodging service of her subpoena. And now, fair stranger,” turning to Joyce, “what can we do for you?” Joyce by this time had decided firmly that Larry Clark would do nothing for her, ever, so she evaded the issue wfth a heroic front. “Thank you, Mr Lawyer, but the more I see of Kate Flynn the more I believe I’ll stay until we can both go out together. But you might tell me about those ratholes.” So he told her the' unsparing truth about the Joyce Moore tenements. And they talked of other things, too. Then, and at other times. For Larry had several visits to make to Kate Flynn on the O’Brien case. Yet on each occasion he seemed to lend himself more and more to nonprofessional chats with the girl “Mary Kane.” CHAPTER IV. According to her message of some time before, Uncle Michael expected Joyce More back in the penthouse by

t The Screen Adaptation being in the United Artists = Picture shortly for Release in New Zealand. j (By HAL CONKLIN.) |

the 17th. He still blissfully imagined that the missing heiress was in a selfimposed retreat at an exclusive sanatorium conditioning herself for another round of rather hectic social activities.

What exactly happened on the 17th was a subdued going-away bustle at x the women’s prison. They were t , “springing” Mary Kane and her dor- (- mitory acquaintance, Kate Flynn, j. Larry Clark, the willing young law--5 yer, made it a holiday event by coming for them in his unostentatious j low priced car. For “Mary Kane,” } instead of being headed for the penthouse, was going, for a while at least, .’ to Kate Flynn’s to live. The other girls in the dormitory b had watched a certain intimate tri- - angle develop. ; “Why doll up so, Sis?” said one i as Kate lingered over her toilet. : “Your girl friend’s caught your - sweetie.” i “Forget it,” Avas the reply. “I’m i proud of her if she has.” Good old Kate. She joined the couple in the wait- . ing room and found them looking ; brightly at each other, the lass at- : tired in a neat little afternoon en- [ semble which Larry had brought to , replace the prison calico and the be- ; draggled evening gown in which she ■ had entered the prison. I “You’ve been marvellous —you and Kate,” she was saying. It had the ring of sincere gratitude, more than could have been expected from frivolous Joyce Moore. “And you are marvellous at all times, Mary Kane,” Larry responded, causing a pleased flush to mount in the girl’s face. “But I haven’t been,” she found words to protest. “I’m just beginning to try to be. “I’ve been dissipated and a parasite. But certain people, certain events, have taught me a better way. Here’s Kate, let’s be on our way to Joyce Moore’s row of rats’ nests.” The incognito heiress was amazed at the reception accorded Kate at the tenements, the welcome to this selfsacrificing girl taking on the proportions of a block party, lacking only the bands and the bunting. But inside Kate’s battered domicile the atmosphere turned depressing. Words had faintly described the outworn condition of the properties, the handicaps endured by the tenants, too poor to migrate. The girl responsible for all this shuddered. But the bitterest pang came after they mounted the sagging stairs to the O’Brien floor and little Bobby’s wan face looked out at them from his bed of pain. “Take me away,” said the girl on Larry’s arm. “It hurts me to see him so.” “I wish Joyce Moore could get such a reaction once,” Larry said grimly. “Come, it’s too early to settle down for the day. I’ll take you for a ride and you’ll feel better.” They drove out on to the prosperous boulevards of Westchester, past the newly teemjing centres and into the region of aristocratic estates. The air, the sunshine, the movement raised them into high spirits. And they chatted without a cloud to shadow their course, until—- “ What luck,” Larry laughed, as they neared Briarcliff. “We can combine business with pleasure. Joyce Moore has a fine country place near here, and I’ve a hunch she’s hiding there. I’ll drive up and maybe spot her and serve her with the subpoena in Bobby’s damage suit.” Right there and then “Mary Kane” went rather white. The servants would recognise her. She thought 1 fast. “Oh,” she cried suddenly, “I want to get out and see this pretty little lake.” “Sure. On the way back,” Larry agreed. “No, please! Now.” Larry yielded. They walked to the lake and lingered until Larry remembered his mission. “Listen, we’re on Miss Marble Heart’s property right now. I must go up to the house.” “You musn’t call heir that,” protested the girl. “Do you really hate her so?” “ Yes—and no. No, I think I’m just sorry for her.” “Then go to her,” Joyce smiled. “I’ll wait.” Five minutes after Larry left her a mixed party of horseback riders came cantering along the bi’idle path near the lake, causing Joyce to shrink against a tree in panic. The leader was Jerry, her one-time fiancee. But Jerry saw her. “ Hey ! There she is, gang ! We’ve run her down.” “Go get her, Jerry,” cried several. “Leave her to me,” Jerry announced, waving them to ride ahead without him. “Look, Joyce,” he said, dismounting, “you’ve hid out long enough. Forget our spat and come with me.” This fitted Joyce’s intentions in not the remotest degree, and she so declared herself with the old time penthouse hauteur. After which an extended argument having no effect, he essayed the hemian role to make her obey, and laid hands on her. Larry returning at that moment, Jerry took one on the chin. Nor did he get himself back on his feet until the flivver became a speck down the road. “Who was that Desperate Desmond, dear?” said one occupant of the flivver to the other. “I suppose we should have asked,” the other giggled. “ But it was all so informal, —dear.” (To be continued.)