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8 S' ** ; j /" / /""N happened only in HfJCgJ cEjajb^ss: RUTH PRATT had always been afraid of firearms. As a child she had hated the Fourth of July with its firecrackers and torpedoes. She had often been ridi culed about this failing. That was the reason she said nothing of it. But silence dees not lessen tear. Only once did she tell her husband of this particular dread. It was when she saw him handling the shinning little pistol that he kept tn the top drawer of his chiffonier. “Oh, take care!" she exclaimed. He glanced at her with amusement that •hanged to astonishment at her pale face. “Why, darling, surely you are not afraid of • revolver?" “No—of course, not." she tried to lie, re membering with shame the ridicule of her childish days. "Only—somehow I don't like pistols." He kissed her. “Then we will put it away," he declared. “But it is really a very handsome revolver, darling.” “It is an unusually small one, too—and looks almost like a toy.” She managed to smile, yet she breathed more freely when he wrapped the weapon in a square of white flannel, laid it in the box from which he had taken it, then placed the box in the drawer. THAT had been three years ago, when she and Tom were first married. And now Tom had been dead for a whole year. A whole year! She was still living in the little apartment they had taken at the time of their marriage. Her brother. Fred Vilas, had suggested at first that she might be happier somewhere else. “The associations here must be sad," he warned her. She slu>ok her head. “They are sad—but sweet, too," she insisted. “Fred, I have enough money to keep this little place. Please let me stay." She must do as she thought best, he said. It was evident that he was uneasy about her liv ing alone. Yet there was no help for it. Be ing with other people would not make her sad ness less. Tom had been her world—and he was gone. Somehow she had never thought of hi* dying. It was all so sudden and inexplicable. “I see no solution to my life,” she said piti fully to her brother. “The only way I can ever be with Tom again is to die—and. Fred. I am too much of a coward to try to die! I do not see”—w'ith a shudder—“how any one dares shoot himself.” “Why speak of shooting oneself?" the brother asked. “There are other ways of committing suicide. You haven't a pistol here by any chance, have you?" How silly of him to fancy she would touch it! “Tom had one." she answered frankly. “He showed It to me and told me to use it If I ever needed to defend myself. I have never touched it from that day to this. It is there In that top drawer " “Let me see it.” Fred commanded. She handed him the box without opening it. He took out the small pistol and stood, turning it over and over in his hand, as if studying it. There were some cartridges in the box with the weapon and he dropped them into nis pocket. “Why do you do that?” she asked. “I’ll get you others better than these." he replied lightly. “I’ll bring them the next time I come. He did bring them to her the next day, an.l put them into the box with the pistol. She noticed that he read the directions on the lid of the box before closing it. “Where are you going to keep this?” Fred asked. “I suppose you’ll move Tom’s chiffonier now, won’t you?" “Yes,” her voice broke as she replied. ‘"Hie chiffonier can be taken out of this room now. As for the pistol—l shall keep it in the bottom drawer of my desk—where,” with a faint smile —“I need not look at it again. I have old letters and keepsakes in there." She locked it away out of sight, and dropped the key into one of the small upper drawers of her desk. It had lain there for a year . She remembered this tonight as she dressed for the evening. It was her birthday. Fred had asked her to go to the theater with him. When she declined, he suggested that it might be pleasant for her if he brought a few friends in to spend the evening with her. “It will be just a little celebration for you.” he rrmarked. "You mustn't sit and brood on your birthday night.” She did not care especially about having any one come in, but she did not like to wound her brother. WHAT a dear he was! For a whole year she had kept him from suspecting all her hideous loneliness. She did not want any one to live with her. Better—far better, to be in her own little h me by herself than share it with some one else. There was only one per fion she wanted—and that was Tom. And she could not go to him except by getting rid of life. Often when she was saddest she would think of. it, and always with a knoweldge that It was TIIF. SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C, OCTORFR 2*5, !931. the remedy for •’ '*■ $ j/f * \ loneliness, but al- ’ , : B‘ • ■ ~ ways also with a * \ from the remembrance of*" ‘ v _ . \ the shining, terrible thing. -agP ',’*■*i. >.**.* * f %j 3 Yes—she was just as ",-’T* -SC ; ■ I much afraid of it as she -- - ' M 4 tiH ’A/ V \ f I A had always been. She had „ .. .fee f ti. * .*&'/ , jPT-' + \ F never summoned courage A 4tA ***" v to look at it since she had $ ' i ) / . A laid it there in the box *■§ & S< 'V%. ! jjh f A jfit with Fred's cartridges. | Hgr * • ’fcas: < f JmtfSm “I think it is the only 3TfP"' A . tangible thing in the world & pjp*’ ''*** K% *~ , . \ .jrSwjfjrj •_ jp • a , J 's By one of the c,*aci- . jylß denres which are too com- / JBr K mon to be strange, her «. ) guests that evening dis- , A ’ cussed a recent suicide. ißpm - Wf : “I cannot understand A 1/ it!” Ruth said vehemently. * '%! ]i If “How could any one take U ■■ m his own life? It is abso- HA * «I lutely incomprehensible.” . B Jjß Vj “It is not to me,” one B * B woman said. B , ’ ' “Nor to me,” echoed a /// u ,t r .fW By PAUL KROESEN BB ■ man. ’• “I wouldn't indulge in it as a pastime,” Dr. Jack son, a young physician, laughed. “Yet I might be terifpted under some circumstances — such as prolonged mental or physical anguish— to make use of my trusty revolver and end things.” “I certainly would not do anything with a revolver!” Ruth tried to laugh, too. ‘'Which only proves what & coward I am!” “It shows you are brave enough to face life —which is more courageous than dying.” the physician assured her. “I hope you are right.” Ruth smiled her thanks at the compliment. “I know he is right,” one of the men re marked. “By the way. Doctor, speaking of suicide, what is the easiest method of accom plishing it? The pistcl that Mrs. Pratt hates? For my part, I would be afraid that I might not aim at a vulnerable spot. Then I would be worse off than before.” “There are several pretty sure points which one can hardly miss.” the young physician said lightly. “For instance, there is a spot here on the temple.” touching the right tem ple at the edge of his curly hair. “If you aimed there the shot would go right home— and so would you, too.” Again Ruth tried tc laug i with the others. Her lips felt stiff and dry. If these people would only talk of something else! Fred sprang to his feet. “For heaven’s sake, cut out the tragedy and let’s get busy with the chafing dish and coffee percolator!” It was past midnight when the last guest went home. Fred Vilas lingered to help his sister set the place to rights. Then he went to the door of her bed room and turned on the light. “It was a nice birthday party, darling.” she said, putting her arms about his neck. “I do thank you for it.” “I thank you for letting me have it. honey,” Vilas said tenderly. “I hope this is the begin ning of a good year for you. Ruth.” “If,” she rejoined, “the surety cf your love can make me happy I shall be happy.” “You are pale, dear," the brother remarked. “You must be very tired. Are you certain you are not nervous—or lonely—or anything?” She kissed him and he turned away. “I am never nervous.” she laughed lightly. “As to the vague ‘anything’ you suggest—no, I am not that, either. Good night, dear!” When he had gone she switched off the h*3 and drawing room lights and returned to her own room. Glancing at herself in the mirror she saw’ that, as Fred had said, she was pale. She must be mere tired than she had appre ciated. She would go right to bed. Undressing, she slipped on her nightgown, then sat down upon the edge of the bed to re move her slippers and stockings. “THE small clock on her desk pointed to 1. It ' was the little clock that Tom had* given her when he gave her the mahogany desk. She loved this desk. Tom and she had ar ranged her papers in it. “In the lower drawer,” he had said, “you’d better keep the things you are not likely to need often—old letters, family papers, etc. Do not put there the articles you use regularly—for it is not pleasant to have to bend d- wn to get something you are in a hurry for.” She -sat very still now. recalling Tom’s words and the sound of his voice, her eyes fixed on the drawer in question. By the way, that was the drawer the pistol was in. It had been there, untouched, for a year Motionless she sat thinking. Hew still her apartment wps! supposed this was the quietest hour of the night. Yet even now she could distinguished the pe- w culiar hum that never ceases W in a great city. She started toward her dressing table, then stopped and looked again at the lower drawer of the desk. Where had she put the key? Oh, yes—in one cf the small upper drawers. Why iid she ask herself this question when she had not forgotten for a moment where the key was? Slowly she opened her desk and the small drawer on the upper left-hand side and took out the little key. Carefully, and still slowly, she defied the top of the desk. She stood for an instant, then, with a swift movement, knelt down in front of the lower drawer. Pitting the key into the lock she turned it, opened the drawer and looked in. The box lay in plain view. She lifted it out. rose, crossed the room and sat down in front of her dressing table. As she opened the box she remembered how Tom, then Fred, had wrapped the small pistol In a bit of white flannel. As if handling something breakable, she removed the wrappings from the pistol. She laid it on the palm of her hand and looked at it. She tried to remember whether Tom had told her how to load it. Not that she v:u’.d want to load it. But—ah! Here were the printed directions pasted into the inside of the top of the box! She read them carefully. Os course, she would never have any need to load the revolver—yet it was foolish not to know how to do it. She laid the box open on her dressing table and re-read the directions slowly, making her actions follow the words. She counted the chambers revealed by the opening of the weapon. Five. Fred had left five cartridges in the box. Os course she would never use even one of them. But she fitted them Into the empty chambers. She closed the pistol, starting slightly, then smiling as the barrel catch clicked Into place. That noise was proof that it was closed. V/ith another glance at the directions she read again—“The revolver is now ready for use.’’ She whispered the words. The apartment was so still that she did net like to speak aloud. She turned the revolver over and over in tier hands. Noting that her fingers had blur red the shining surface of the barrel, she took her handkerchief from the table and polished the surface until not a cloud remained. Such a little thing to end s life with! How foolish she had been to be rfraid of it! She was afraid no longer. She almost laughed as she appreciated suddenly that now she , cpjild, think even of suicide yvithout ft shudder. fie r two aversions had been conquered! At that instant she torn her own image in thm glass. Her face was at f-w white as the nightgown she wore and from her, '**' pale face there looked out the darkest, mildest eyes she had ever seen, NATURALLY, nobody would ever want to commit suicide. Some one had said this evening that living took more courage than dying. She had never been afraid of life. Bui she had been afraid of death. The thought at self destruction had held a horror for her. Bud denly that horror w es gone, and her silly aver sion to insensate firearms was vanquished too. At last she was absolutely free — indepen dent! What a glorious thing life was under such conditions! She laughed aloud, throwing back her head as she did so. At that instant she saw' her own image to the glass. Her face was as white as the nightgown she wore. Her dark hair fell about her shoulders, and from her pale face there looked out the darkest. wildest eyes she had ever seen— her own eyes. Fascinated, she sat peering into those re flected eyes. Then her gaze dropped from the eyes of the image in the glass to the reflected hands. They grasped a shining pistol. She could see that the fingers were so tightly shut that the knuckles sto'd out white and sharp. Why did she hold that pistol so tightly? Her glance returned to the mirrored fmea. The lips were bloodless. Why? Was it because of that pistol? What had Dr. Jackson said about a spot cn the forehead at which one could aim? Again she studied the face in the glass. On the right temple was a little sunken place, just below the hair. With difficulty she loosened the grasp of the fingers of one hand on the pistol and pushed back a lock of her hair that she might the better see the little spot. Her eyes fixed on the compelling eyes in the mirror, she lifted the right hand that still grasped the pistol. She glanced away from these piercing eyes long enough to be sure that she was making no mistake. The pistol was pointed directly at that sunken spot on the right temple. The cold barrel end touched her skin. . . . She pulled the trigger. 11VOUR sister had evidently been dead fog * some hours when I reached here,” the coroner was saying to Fred Vilas. "The super intendent telephoned me as soon as he discov ered what had happened. There were blade powder marks on her face—and the skin wag slightly abraded, as you have seen. But, mj dear sir.” gripping the brother's arm and low ering his voice, “the strange thing is that thera was no hole in the temple. She was dead. But no bullet had entered the brain, for none had penetrated the bone.” Fred Vilas* glanced about the little living room befere speaking. Only last night Ruth and her friends had been discussing suicide to this very room. And now He was conscious that the coroner was wait ing for him to say something. Os course, them was nothing for him to say but the truth. "There was no bullet hole in the temple,* he explained hoarsely, "for there were bo bul lets in those cartridges. I myself supplied th* cartridges for that pistol. It was one of them that njy sister used. And they were all blanks.