The Photo-Play Journal (Jul 1919-Feb 1921)

October, 1920 15 purpose of spending his vacation with his wife. His wife, however, wasn't overly pleased at the prospect, but made the best of it. Mr. Richley knew Pinky. A man whose wife neglects him will find pleasure in the company of chorus girls: let Dr. Straton object — I merely state the facts as 1 find them. As a matter of truth, nothing had happened that Dr. Straton could object to. Pinky, in company with other members of her company, had dined several times with Mr. Richley. To the girls, Mr. Richley had poured out his woes : his wife flirted outrageously with other men ; she was bored when he made love to her; it was a rotten world. And the girls would tell him to cheer up ; some day his wife would realize what a treasure she was neglecting, and everything would turn out well. The girls would live happily forever, they assured him, if they could get husbands like him. And Mr. Richley would ask them if they really meant it ; and they did. And he'd call the waiter and pay the check and everybody would go home happy. Pinky, therefore, was mighty pleased to see Mr. Richley. Here was one society personage who wasn't ashamed to talk to her. And the way she jumped up to greet him made William worried. He didn't want her to like anybody — well, anybody except himself — as much as that. Right after that, Fairview began holding a mixed doubles tournament. Any time that Mrs. Richley went a-walking with the doctor, Mr. Richley and Pinky would take a stroll, too. And, by some strange coincidence, the latter pair would almost inevitably come upon the former, much to the embarrassment of said former. And, apparently, of said latter, for that matter. William, as hinted previously in this faithful chronicle, didn't like the turn of events. Pinky still was pleasant to him; but she gave just as much of her time to Mr. Richley. Now if William could have hated Mr. Richley, he could have found an outlet for his emotions, and have been happy. But it was impossible even to dislike small, fat, goodnatured Mr. Richley. So he struggled along under his inhibition, which is a good deal worse, the psychologists tell me, than even prohibition. He caught Pinky writing a note one day. 'What are you writing?" he asked. "Who wants to know ?" laughed Pinky. "I'll bet you were writing a love letter to me," said William. "I'll bet I wasn't," said Pinky. "Gee, you're stuck on yourself !" "No," said William, "I'm just stuck on you." Then, suddenly, he seized the note from her hand. "You give that back to me," said Pinky. "Not till I read my love letter," said William. But this is what he read : "Dear Mr. Richley: Meet me at ten tonight, and be sure that no one sees us. Yours, Pinky." William turned pale. "I'm awfully sorry," he said, "I didn't know — I thought it was a letter to me, honest, I did." Pinky, furious at first, softened. "Well, William, will you trust me? That letter looks funny, but do trust me, will you?" William, choking a bit, said, "I'll trust you, Pinky, I'll trust you to the end of the world." Dr. Roberts' approach cut short their conversation. "See that nobody disturbs me tonight, William," he said, "I've got a bad headache, and I'm going to turn in early. And I don't want to be awakened •on any excuse. Get me?" "Yes, sir," said William. William, choking a bit, said, Any good detective has hunches. William had his that night. He put a pistol under his pillow, and turned off the light. But he couldn't sleep. "Something's going to happen," he kept saying to himself. "Something's going to happen." He dozed off for a while, and awoke with a start. "Can't sleep," he said. "Something's going to happen." And it did. Just before dawn he heard a woman's shriek, and running footsteps. He ran out of his room, and into the butt end of a revolver, skilfully wielded by our friend Keene, who was masked for the occasion. Keene had entered one of the guest rooms, and had been compelled to retreat before getting away with anything. William, dazed, resumed the chase, but Keene had managed to slip into his room again, where he undressed hastily, donned a bathrobe, and joined the other guests, who came pouring down. William was going to summon the doctor, when he remembered his orders. Still, he wondered how a man could sleep through all that commotion. Obeying his detective's impulse, he tried the door. It was locked. He looked through the keyhole; the room was empty. William came downstairs. Another shriek arose. Mrs. Richley declared her husband was missing. "He's not in his room, he's been murdered," she screamed. Doctor Roberts, who had been visiting his family, made his entrance through the secret panel, and joined the throng. William stared at him. "Where's Pinky?" demanded somebody. "She's not in her room, either." Another mystery ! William's head, still slightly dazed from the blow, began to reel a bit. But the thought of Pinky roused him. He opened the outside door. There, sleeping in the hammock, was Pinky, curled up tightly. Mrs. Richley shook her furiously. "What's the matter ?" asked Pinky, sleepily. "Where's my husband ?" demanded the outraged wife. "Why ask me?" said Pinky. "It was you that married him, wasn't it ?" "Why are you sleeping out here?" "I took a walk late in the evening, and when I came back I found myself locked out. So I just went to sleep in the hammock." William thought of the note Pinky had written. By Jove! Was she guilty of any crime? But he had promised to trust her until the end of the world — and maybe the doctor was the guilty one. They summoned Sheriff Wells, and he did a lot of crossexamining, but to no avail. "How about you?" he asked his son. "You got any clews?" William said "Yes," decidedly. "What are they?" laughed the Sheriff. "You do your own detecting," said William. "T/Z trust you, Pinky, I'll trust you to the end of the world" ii 'i ■ ■ i iii