Mcallen Daily Monitor

NOBODY'S GIRL
by
LILLIAN M. MITCHELL
Anne Hudrie and Viola Holt, half-sisters, work in the same office in Chicago. Anne, serious-minded and old-fashioned, has no beaux. But the shallow-brained Viola is out for a good time.
One Saturday afternoon, the girls return to the office to find their employer, Mr. Keith, just leaving. To their horror, he says he has just killed a man in the office, then bolts into an elevator. A watchman finds the girls loitering in the corridor, questions them, then calls the police. When police come and open the office door, Anne gets one glimpse of a man's body inside, then faints into the arms of a strange young man.

CHAPTER IX
"Don't touch the body until the coroner comes," the watchman said excitedly.
For reply, the police officer in charge stared at him, then took hold of the limp figure in the chair and jerked it into an upright position.
"What's this!" he snarled.
"Somebody's idea of a joke on the police? Who called us here, anyhow?"
"Why, it's nothing but a dummy!" exclaimed someone in the crowd.
"Some publicity stunt, I suppose," offered another. "Who has this suite, anyhow? Oh yeah—Keith Advertising and Publicity."
"Well, it's a cheap stunt, I'll say ..."
Just then, one of the officers made a discovery.
"Look here! The dummy's shot full of bullets!"
"Yes," said the building watchman. "That's what someone reported to the office. Shots. I investigated."
"You're some investigator!" the officer said witheringly.
Meanwhile, in the hall, the strange young man, into whose arms Anne had fainted, was calling for aid.
"Give me a hand, some one, so we can get her into the office."
"Oh, dear," quavered Viola, her eyes filling with tears.
"Get some water, will you, and stop your yammering," the stranger suggested. "She'll be all right in a minute."
When Anne opened her eyes, she was resting in Mr. Keith's leather chair in his private office. Sitting on Mr. Keith's desk, looking down at her, was the strange young man.
"Name, please?" he said briskly.
Anne stared at him in bewilderment.
"Mine's John Jones," he continued. "I am not asking your name to be funny or anything. The police are taking the names of all witnesses to this hoax—"
"Hoax?" said Anne. "You mean—"
"It's just a dummy sitting out there in the chair."
"And he's not dead at all?"
Anne suddenly came to life.
"Dead? How could a dummy be anything else but dead?" said John Jones, casually lighting a cigarette.
"Oh, but poor Mr. Keith!" said Anne, jumping up. "He thought he had killed a man. Oh, dear! We must try to find him at once, or he may do himself some damage, thinking he's a murderer."
"That's funny," John Jones said sitting upright suddenly. "He or someone else did shoot that dummy! It's full of bullets. But there was no gun."
Before he finished speaking, Anne had dashed from the private office into the outer room.
"Here, you!" bawled an officer, as she sped through the room.
"You can't leave—"
But she was already out in the corridor. Quickly, she rushed into an elevator that had just stopped at the floor.
In a few minutes, she was down on the street. As she reached the corner, a man came alongside her and slipped his hand through her arm. It was John Jones.
"Whither thou goest, I will go," he said whimsically.
"What are you tagging me for?" Anne asked coldly.
"Tut-tut-tut! You'll never get yourself a husband with those acid tones in your voice."
"I don't know," said Anne, coloring, "that I've ever tried to get a husband."
The irrelevant realization came to her, in all the turmoil of the moment, that indeed she never had made the slightest effort to get her man. She had always hoped that, in story-book fashion, some man would suddenly appear and ardently woo her. Some girls, she knew well enough, almost had to do the proposing. Anne told herself that she would never, never marry if she had to do the wooing, but in her heart she wondered if she were telling herself the truth.
"Say, what's the haste, anyhow?" asked John Jones. "Why not take time enough to enjoy this little stroll on the boulevard?"
"I've got to find Mr. Keith," Anne answered.
"Oh! So that's it. Why are you so hot and bothered? Are you in love with the guy?"
"Not at all!" she flared. "Mr. Keith is a married man! It's just that he has always been very kind to my sister and me."
"Then that other girl really was your sister. Gosh it doesn't seem possible. She looks like such an empty-headed little thing. Oh, I say! I beg your pardon. Of course you don't relish hearing your sister panned, but she's such a mutt and you—you're sweet!"
(To be continued)