Hope Star from Hope, Arkansas on November 29, 1939 · Page 4
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Hope Star from Hope, Arkansas · Page 4

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Hope, Arkansas
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Wednesday, November 29, 1939
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SlfclALSTOftY 5 WOULD KILL BY TOM. HORNER COPYRIGHT, CHAPTER XIII VIWI'KHIIAY. On**on «(nrilr. Jho darn !•«•»«. Arn rornrn, t*tt» ntm <fcrtt JIM ,«n«r ttrrtthnrn*' tnr- )|p+ In (Hi- <>ir»Hln<r. s** ntntr «» kill him, hnt ,Mt*. nrnlknrnr IH. (frruplf.l their inrrllnK. . »rtt*«o(« .1«k«i why *hi> CTitttlttt In hill Wrn- Ihnrnr. Slotttr AHi «n*w*r*t "He want my fnlher!" JTOR a moment there was silence ns Ara's words seemed t& echo throughout the room. The girl did benr a resemblance to Benthome, Dawson realizet now. wondering how it hnc escaped him. The expression o hate death had frozen on Ben- thome's face was reflected, hQW* ever softened, in her features There was the same downward slant to the corners of the mouth the same determined set of the jaw. And Ara's almost unbreakable control, her ruthlessness of purpose—these were Benthorne's heritage to his daughter. "You have proof, of course?" Dawson asked, explaining, "You may share in the estate." Ara shook her head. "I don't want his money—ever—" she said bitterly. "He offered me that . a hundred thousand to go away and never, let Mrs. Benthorne know. I laughed at him ... I wanted to make him suffer as we had suffered—mother and I. . . .' "You must have some proof," the detective persisted, gently. "I'vejpienty of proof, right here in this room," Ara answered. "Pictures, letters, a marriage certificate. They were oh the desk when Mrs. Benthorne came in. He stuffed them into a book, and put it on the shelf quickly, hoping she hadn't seen them. . . . But I told her." "Suppose you start at the beginning and--tell me all about it; WS'11 get to the proofs later, if necessary." Dawson guided her to a chair, then stbod over her, waiting for this unbelievable, fantastic story. Montana cattleman. She was n beautiful girl, and she had n dozen proposals before she was 18. Btr Jbhri Douglas"—Dawson glancet qiieStioiiingly at the young mart at the mention of the name— "really won her love. "He was handsome, wealthy, apparently an adventurer wheri he came to Montana. No one could find out much about him, or where he had made his money—but that didn't bother folks out there much, ... He did no work, received no mail, and apparently had no interest in life until he met Ara Johnson. . . ." The old cowman. Boss Johnson, had little liking for the stranger, the girl related, and less when he discovered his daughter was see- ihg Douglas. At last the couple eloped to Salt Lake City. The marriage lasted three months. Then Douglas disappeared, leaving his wife penniless and alone. She was too proud to go back to her father, too independent to ask for help. She found work, first as a waitress, then in a laundry, but the hours were long and the pay small. Ara was-born in a charity ward. But the months of work, the agony o£ loneliness, climaxed by the birth of the child, had taken too great p. '._il of her mother's strength. "Before Mother died, she wrote all of this in detail. Then she put it with all of her pictures of herself and her husband, her marriage certificate and some letters John Douglas had written her be- 'ore their elopement. On one of ;hem—his finger must have been smudged with ink—was an almost perfect fingerprint. She also wrote a letter to her father, in Montana. 'She left instructions that her father.should be notified in case of her death and that the packet of letters should be kept for me. Jut something went wrong, no one /PHERE was nothing sordid in Ara's account of her mother's marriage to the man the world was to know as Arnold Benthorne. It was merely the old, old story of an impetuous daughter, an attractive young man, and an elopement to escape parental objection. "Mother—her name was Ara Johnson, too—" the girl began, "was the daughter of a wealthy might hove gone home to her gtandfrtthei-, but finding her father became an obsession. She had been alone all of her life, a few more years coitld not mutter. Arid as those years passed any affection she might have had for her father turned to hate. Her long" hours of work were blnmed on him. The pleasures she was forced to forego and the hardships she endured were charged up to his neglect. Hers was a long fight, for an education, for a job, even for a living. Detesting her father, she refused his name, adopted that of hef grandfather. And all the time she waited for the clew that might lead her to her father. It came unexpectedly. * 3 $ CHE was working as cashier in a coffee shop when she first noticed him—nn open-faced, red- tiaired, smiling youth, who paused to talk nbout the weather and the games as he paid his baseball check "Build-up for an invitation to ever told her father, jacket was forgotten. And the "I was raised in an orphanage. Apparently no one ever wanted to adopt me. When I was 15 I vent to work as a housemaid. The 'amily I worked for were kind and helped me all they could. It was through their efforts that I was able to trace my birth record and discover my mother. "One of the nurses who had cared for Mother remembered her, and told me about her. She re- nembered the pacftet of letters, oo, .and when she learned I did lot have them, she began a search hat finally uncovered them in an aid file cabinet, in the vault." » » * gUT finding her father was no • simple.task, Ara learned after ong years of vain searching. She show and supper," she warned herself. There were many such requests and invariably all met with the same smiling refusal. But this time. Ara wondered if she really wanted to Class with all this the genial young mnn others. For a week she watched for him each day, waited for the inevitable "How about seeing a show tonight?'! But it did not come. Then late one evening, just before she was ready to quit, she looked up from counting, her change into those laughing blue eyes, and that disarming grin. "Have you lived in -Salt Lake long?" he asked pleasantly. "I was born here." "You must know a lot of people." "Not many, and only a few of those who really count." "I'm looking for a man," he continued. "1 don't know much about the city. I've searched for a week and I'm no farther now than when I started. You've been friendly—more so than any other person I've met—I wonder you'd help me?" There was no denying his straightforward appeal. "Wait outside until I'm through here. We can stop at the library, check into the directories." Fifteen minutes later they hurried toward the library. Suddenly Ara paused. "This isn't a habit of mine, you know," she said. "But you do look honest, and I may be able to help." "I know you can," the young man insisted. "May I introduce myself? I am John Douglas." CHAPTER XIV YMterdayi Ara tell* kow • John Duuelim married her mother, druriird her before Am tnu born* Tfce *iulk«r died, leaving Am letter* ••<! ybotiurraphN which ««r kelp her flnd her faiher. Ara In brought up In an orphanage, ha* to MtruitKle to live. .She l»nte« her father. At la»t »be meet* a likeable rnuae man, dlncover* aJ« •ante In John Dodging. JJAWSON was not surprised .as '*^ Ai'a related her first meeting with young John Douglas, but the young man's connection with Arnold Benthorne was still mystifying. The detective waited for Ara to continue. "Let me go on from here, darling," Douglas put in, anxious to spare her as much as possible of the ordeal. But she refused, tenderly but firmly. "There are some things I've never even told you, John dear," she said, taking his hand and pulling him down to the arm of her chair. "I've never let you know how much I hated my father. You've thought I wanted to find him because I loved him. And perhaps you wondered that I Jell so much in love with you, almost immediately. I really didn't. I detested you, because I thought you were related to my father. That's why I ran away that first night." John laughed at the memory. "You see, Captain Dawson," he explained, "after Ara had promised to help me search for this man, she left me standing there after I had told her my name. I couldn't figure it out. I went back to the coffee shop the next day, though, and explained that I was looking for my uncle, John Douglas." "And I thought your uncle was my father. I saw a chance to Jocate him, at last, through you, possibly to hurt him, by hurting you. But I never could have, honey." Her smile revealed the Jove that had grown out of her hate. * * * ARA and John could find no •"• trace of any John Douglas in Salt Lake City. Then one day, when they had almost given up hope, John found a picture ol Arnold Benthorne in the rotogravure section of a New York newspaper. Benthorne and his wife had been guests at a costume ball, and the financier had gone dressed as a miner, "Benthorne made only a few mistakes," Douglas said, "but tha was one— a fatal one. . . ." Daw:.on fe'iiv/i no indication that he h-ncl noticc-cl the word "fatal"—as (he younjj man continued: "I hac one jjictuix- of the msiii J was trail- jjg, an oJd, faded print. But ii j.nowed the man with a beard £f-n'/aojm-'s picture was astonishi- ngly •similar. Then Ara had one of the pictures of her father copied and we sketched a beard on his tace. The result .was so perfect we were convinced that Benthorne was our man. "You would have thought that dressing as a miner for a costume party was the last thing that Ben- thorne would ever have done. I guess he was so confident that the jast could never bother him, but ie overplayed his hand. Perhaps '.'d better explain," he added, noting Dawson's unspoken questions. "The real John Douglas was Big Red,' my uncle, as I've already told you. He was a prospector in the Yukon, went to Alaska in the first gold rush. For years he grubbed along, making a little strike, always looking for that one great mine. Then he disappeared into the unmapped interior. "For years no one heard of him. The family, my father and the others, lost track of him, believed him dead. That opinion would have remained unchanged if I had not got a job with the Great Northern Mining Company, after graduating from college. "In going over some data for a survey, I found that a John Douglas had sold a rich claim to the company in Seatle in 1916, long after my uncle had disappeared. I told my father about it and he sent me to Alaska to check on the sale. It took me over a year to search out old miners who had known 'Big Red' personally, and to check 20-year-old records. "I had one piece of real luck. The old editor of one of the Juneau papers had a photograph of my uncle, taken just after he had filed on the claim which the Great Northern later bought. Pictured with 'Big Red' was a gambler, a bearded feJJow named Benson. " 'I never liked this fellow, Benson,' the old editor told me 'Red and I were good friends and I told him that Benson was a crook. But Red seemed to like him. After Red went back to his claim, this Benson fellow disappeared.' "I reported the whole thing to my father and we agreed that Benson probably either won or stole uncle's claim. If uncle had sold his claim in Seattle, in 1916, as the records showed, he never would hiive gone back to Alaska without seeing his family." AtLEYOOP LOOKS LIKE TROJ l§ WASHED WELL, I CAM'T OO No GOOD Hef4E,SOl GUESS t. , ,flfc#H\ (SC> S^ H°W OOOLA AN' USED) fOC &ROW50MA.RE / MAtCIN'OUT f-~ Give a Guy a Hand ... /.;.'' Wednesday, November j^aiiMa<iiiigB^irfftM» x By V. T. .' EVEM TH GREEkd \ HAVE- LEFT.' NOW WHEREXIJ HECIC ARE — — " tJOCTOR. ^.WELL.PON'T 6RONSOW! )STAWP THERE •- X A GOGGLE / LOOM / GET \fcOPES OFF GOLLY, PCC* -,(IT WAS THAT POUBLt Bronson Goes on the Warpath HOW COME HE BUT rr vVow'T ( wo, i GUESS HAPPEN Ae>A!M,\ NOT 1 CAM TELL YOU/K . HOW COME f DASHED UiySBES.' /-''AMD X Ht E.VEN OUT- VOU WERE VI TRIED TO CROSS /-THEM HE \ 1 THOUGHT HP - MARTUD ME, ALL TIED UPH HIM UP AMD IT ( SAILfet? ./THOUGHT SHE ) WHO t)OIUP ^J mritfT u*-«>f i X ,-vrrr IA/ITU iS n«<=. A < A TWENTIETH ' WHO COME r"\ PlPW'T VS/OfeK..' A OFF WITH \\ WA"=> A X ., Of BRAINS 'i OOOLA/ I V GOPPESS.' J ) S ^»»_ -»%. . _-v-^ WASH TUBES IfsJot So Fast, Unkle Link By Roy Crane fcT CAROL AM' MR. / MEW WELL, MeVCEE ARE ARRWW JUST A WMUTE \wHAT! HAVEN'T WEU i WHILE I6ET MY } EWOU6H TROUBLES' V k'kl HERE, HELP \ / '^ E .. PA ^ K . T1?.1 E ) \* >wv P| 6S.OWLS AND WEASEL'S TO / UMCLE LIWCOLU VOU'LL MOT TAKE / I'M APRA\D, EUROPE, UUCLE I THEM ILL 6O THIH6S TOGETHER 1 WITHOUT TAKIMA THIU6S IU THE / CAR ~/ v t WE GOTTA WTHVoy — THAT CRACK-POT BUT I \N\TH U<i? COULDU'T VERV WELL C.EFUSE 60 HOME VI T^T^OME \MAV OF GET R\0 OF uuaue A Trifle Eccentric Is Right On that vague lead, young John Douglas had come to Salt Lake, found Ara. After they discovered Benthorne's picture, they compared all their notes and records, even handwriting, and concluded that Ara's father, the gambler Benson, and Arnold Benthorn* were one and the same. But proving it was another matter. They came to New York and determinedly set about learning all they could about Benthorne. The financier had refused to see Douglas, but did agree to an interview with Ara after she had mentioned her mother's name, and a _ few personal matters known only to her mother and father. * * * IT was the smudged fingerprint on the letter that broke Ben- |== thorne'.s denials, Ara told Dawson. Only when she confronted him with that irrefutable proof did he finally admit that he was her father. "Then he made all sorts promises, if I would only go away, never come back. He had no more love for me than for my mother. His only fear was that his social position might be endangered, that a scandal might hurt his business. His one idea was to get rid of me as quickly and as painlessly as possible. ..." "You're lucky Benlhorne didn't live longer," Dawson said, might have 'removed' you permanently. But why, after you there the trail grew faint. had left the house earlier in the evening, did you come back with this silly marriage stuff?" "That was my idea, Captain," Douglas replied. "I figured if I could get in the house for a few minutes, I might recover Ara's proofs; and I wanted a chance at Benthorne myself. I know robbed my uncle." "But Miss Johnson had no further use for those letters and pictures, unless she really intended to try to ruin Benthome." "I wanted to do just that, Captain," Ara said. "I intended to wreck everything that Arnold Benthorne had—his marriage, his business, his entire life. showed no mercy to my mother. "So you suggested that Douglas come back for the proofs. . . . Did you tell him about the secret entrance from the street?" "J didn't know you knew of secret entrance, Ara," Douglas interrupted, had been 'I did not know you here last night. I thought—" Dawson directed his A single, slim clew was a brief j ne xl question at Douglas. letter, addressed to "John Doug- lab, Salt Lake City," in the company files. That was tliu last communication the company had with Douglas, subsequent efforts to locate him having failed. "Did it occur to you, Douglas, that this girl might have wanted to liavt house you discovered in the , . to cover up a murder s=he intended to commit?" (To Be Continued) SO 6LAD TO HAVE YOU, KAP. p^tL ^! YOURSELF AT HOME, UWCLE LINCOLN/"60 KM6HT EAfeV AWD I \W\LL BE BUSy \NELCOM\MG CAROL / AVItAD AMO MP.-^VFP r— . ./ iMfiTON.VoN'T I'D BETTER WARW VOU, BE PREPARED FOR AHYTHIN6. TO PUT IT ' MILDLY, MR. TUBBS tS JUST A TRIFLE ECCEMTRIC MV UWCLE HWCOLW, . 6REV. HE'S 60l4kJA UtSIT ME FOR AWHILE I-DOMT TWWK <ME'0 MWD Vf I TEAR UP FLOOR BOA.V5D OR TWO. A FELLA HA-=, TO WOE HIS WON6V SOME f PLACE FRECKLES AND HIS FRIENDS Sight Unseen By Merrill Blosser GANGWAY THIS IS FATe / FATF PICKED OUT THIS MOMENT THAT GAL KNOW ALONG JUST" WHEN BUCKING UP COMMA MEET NOW WAIT A ILL TAKF MY CHANCES 7 SECOND , ROMEO I , » NATURE COULDNT WAVE / HOLD YOUR. H09SHS / f PUT UP A POOR fMJlln I YOU DON'T EVEN I. ING ON TMAT KND \ KNOW WHAT SHP I OF'A FOU^DATIONl? , ; i LOOKS LIKE/ A Little Detective Work FriAT WON'T I'LL FIND HBP. / THAT G\RL CArAE INTO AAY LIFS FOR. A PURPOSE", DCX5QONIT r v n— i iv\i— ,. PAIR- OF { SCISSORS AMD A Piece OP CARDBOARD WILL YA, •I ifA GONNA MAKE A CARDBOARD CUTOUT "(D FIT THE FOOTPRINT AMD use it AS A CLUE ' l' LL - FIND THAT ' GIRL / SHE'S GONE, LARD / RED RYDER "Shark" Stalks His Prey By Fred Harman AT THE END OF THE f A)AW HE --- HOLt) THtTA HOS5ES — r\f?.VJVTHERS r-\ADE\ QUITE A. SACRIFICE ) ( fAE IAMDE SACRIFICE TO RAI5E MONEY .. 6WE-Uf\ CANDY TO GOAT— IT TOO HARD FOR ME -10 CHEW.' TO CURE HIS CRIPPLEO VO LITTLE 605H. HAPPY HE'S /"^ ^*AI»\) L)rt*^e^ ' V ^ WITH HIS CAT-TIE THAT OUTUAVO SHARK." The Hold-Up 7 You 8ETCHOM, MISSY JO JEA.N-ANP LITTLE BEAVER, TAKE 1H\S ^OTE. TO IT SHORE. 16-WITHER5 YORE HOME , OLTJ FORK OVER THAT SATCHEL- OF MONEY . EVERYBODY PLENTY HAPPY IAR.S. V)\THER6> SOOM GET OPERATION) VO\TH CATTLE tt 50 SHE VJAXK AGAIN* .' COMPANY. STRAMG ER tAY NAME — I'M VT'S A COUMTRY ,' GO\MG HO^E—SEEM AWAY ft>R QUITE: A SP£LU i v^_ . VJ \THER5 VOAMTS HlfA TO MEET STAGS— X' GO ING, TOO ! ALONG OVER. A. 6TRETCH OF COUNTRY- -

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