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Show I, CARIBBEAN aai lll CONSPIRACY!!. 11 till W BR END A CONRAD i She shook her head. "It wouldn't be enough, for either of us, Miguel." And now she was going home. She'd written notes to everybody, even Pete, because she didn't want any one to see her, and see she was unhappy. The Santa Isabella steamed slowly slow-ly through the blinding snow. The dumpy gray-green figure of the Statue Stat-ue of Liberty loomed mistily ahead. Anne Heywood pulled her beaver coat closer around her and leaned against the rail, the icy flakes of snow sharp against her cheeks. She was coming home. In a few moments she'd be in New York again. Her father and mother would be at the dock to meet her. She took a deep breath and wiped the snow off her long dark lashes. It was wonderful! It was wonderful to be cold again, and smell the smoke, and hear the low bellow of fog horns and the sharp high toot of the tugboats going busily back and forth. How she'd ever thought for a minute she could leave it, she didn't THE STORY SO FAR: Anne Heywood, eantiful daughter of a wealthy New fork newspaper publisher, goes to Poer 0 Rico on an assignment for her father's eper. Also on the island are Pete W ilex, il-ex, a reporter on her father's paper, iow a U. S. Army Intelligence officer; Siguel Valera, a Puerto Rrcan educated a the United States who is a secret U. S. Rent; and Richard Taussig, an engineer hose identity as a German agent Anne ielps to prove. When Mr. Taussig offers er the story of his activities in Puerto llco In exchange for some plans be hinks she has, Anne goes with him to a emote villa. She gets her story, and irmy Intelligence gets Its man. She has indicated her judgment. Cn AFTER XIX He sat at a desk in what seemed Anne a combination study and (ffice, filled with cabinets and dark leavy furniture. She waited a lit-le lit-le breathlessly for him to speak, lis eyes were kindly, wise and in-tnitely in-tnitely understanding. "I'm going to talk very frankly md perhaps very cruelly to you, my thild," he said slowly. "Because I jink you are very intelligent and flear-sighted. I cannot speak to my on, because he is .deeply in love end not clear-sighted. Women are ealists, men romanticists." "I suppose that's true, really," Inne said. "I don't want you to marry my on, Anne. Or him to marry you. ! love him very deeply, and I have 1 very warm and genuine feeling or you. Thafs why I'm speaking 0 you. I don't want either of you 0 be unhappy. I am saying to you ehat I believe your father would ay if he were here." 1 She looked at him silently. The dea that she wasn't acceptable as 1 daughter-in-law came as a shock, n spite of everything she knew. "There are many reasons. Before : met you and talked to you, if my on had told me he was going to narry an American girl I would lave forbidden it with all the au-hority au-hority I have. Knowing you has nade it difficult, because I have Ived a long time and known many pomen, and I know I would have alien in love with you had I been fliguel. I should even like to have ou for a daughter, if it could al-pays al-pays be as it is this moment. I say hat very sincerely, Anne." He came over to her and put his lands gently on her shoulders. Look at me, Anne." She looked up, her eyes wide and parkling with tears. "You're very beautiful," he said. had been she knew better now what life was about. And there wasn't any pain now. She laughed suddenly. sudden-ly. It was marvelous to be alive . . . and to be home again. "I'd better write to Pete, I guess," she thought irrelevantly. The ship nosed into the dock. The sailors let down the ropes and slipped the gangplank into place. Anne ran across to the long ramp, looking for her father and mother In the crowd of people waving and laughing. Suddenly she saw them. "Angels!" she cried. "Oh gosh, it's swell to see you!" Her mother's mink coat was cool and sweet against her face, and her father's chin was rough and slightly stubbly, as it always was by the end of the day. "It's so wonderful to see you!" Her father blew his nose violently. violent-ly. "There's a friend of yours around here somewhere," he said. "There he is." For a moment Anne stood there, perfectly still. "Pete!" "Hello, Annie," Captain Peter Wilcox Wil-cox said. " What on earth are you doing here?" He grinned. "I've been transferred to Washington. Wash-ington. I wasn't good enough for the front-line trenches." He looked at her intently for a moment. mo-ment. Then he grinned again, took her arm and elbowed her through the crowd to the car waiting for them in the wintry street. Outside Anne's home the snow swirled through the naked branches of the trees and pelted icily against the window panes. Anne stood watching it for a moment. Then she drew the heavy damask curtains cur-tains together, holding them tightly an instant before she turned and came blindly over to the sofa in front of the blazing log fire. Pete stood there watching her, the long ash of his cigarette growing unnoticed un-noticed between his fingers. Her father fa-ther and mother had gone upstairs. Anne stood staring down at the leaping, leap-ing, crackling flames. Suddenly Pete jerked his cigarette into the fire and took a quick stride toward her. He stood for a moment looking down at the bright bent golden head. Then he raised his hands and gripped her arms. "Anne," he said. "Look at me. Anne." She shook her head. Everything inside her had dissolved into a liquid agonizing fire at the strong sure touch of his hands, and the new determined de-termined iron in his voice. "I can't, Pete I can't," she whispered. whis-pered. He drew her to him and held her hard and tight against him, his lips hot against her hair. Then he raised her head and kissed her lips. She clung to him desperately. "Oh, Pete! What a fool I was! Don't let me go . . . ever, ever!; The tears sprang clear from her long curling lashes and poured down her cheeks. He held her close in his arms, kissing them away. "You're mine, Anne . . . you've always been mine. I couldn't liv without you," he whispered. "My sweet, my sweet." She moved away a little, still holding hold-ing tightly to his arms, and looked around her slowly. Then she looked back at bim. "Don Alvaro was right," she said softly. "This is where I belong." He took her in his arms again, "This is where you belong, Annie, And don't ever forget it." THE END rhere were tears in his eyes, too. 'I don't want to see your wings lipped and your spirit dulled. We vouldn't mean to do it You wouldn't nean to hurt us. It's circumstance. Jo back to your own people and your iwn life. This is not it You could lot understand our needs and our labits. We could not understand 'ours. None of us would be happy. I don't want you to answer me now. . want you to think about it If you lecide to stay, we will love you, and le as kind to you as we can. God iless you, my child." Anne clung to Miguel holding her ightly in his arms, kissing her tear-itained tear-itained face. They were in his car on the beach icross the bay at Palo Secco. The ights of El Morro dipped, wavering ibbons on the dark surface of the fater. "You do love me, Anne, don't ou?" he whispered. "Oh, terribly, Miguel . . ." "I know it will be hard for you, in ots of ways," he said gently. She looked at him quickly then, le must have realized what was go-no- nn in hpr TTilnrl nil th tim "I couldn't live without you," he whispered. know. The first sharp stinging rain chilling her bones had done something some-thing extraordinary to her. Everything Every-thing had fallen into place with a flash of breath-taking clarity. She looked back, a little pain still moving mov-ing in her heart her head perfectly clear again. Don Alvaro was right. She'd have been a mess. She'd either have gone militantly feminist like the women of her mother's day who picketed the White House, and chucked her weight about objecting to customs and manners that didn't to her, make sense, or she'd have given in. But she wouldn't have done that. But it was funny how quickly the cold wintry fog had dissolved, it all, like an orchid when the ' frost touches it. Though not really. Don Alvaro was right afcout that too. It had got mixed into her, some .way, softening and warming something that had been too brittle and cold before. Her spirit was richer than it ind if he did, it meant that it must e going on in his too. "Miguel! You . . . you're afraid oo . . . aren't you?" Her voice was hardly more than a whisper. He didn't answer for a moment fhen he said, "I am, a little, Anne. 3ut not because I wouldn't always ove you. It's because you're you. .... I wouldn't want anything to lappen to you. You're so lovely . . I wouldn't want you to be (liferent. (lif-erent. I wouldn't want you to be locile and . . . and domesticated ind I'm afraid. I wouldn't want ny . . . my family to absorb you. md make you " "And . . . they'd try, wouldn't hey?" He sat motionless for a while. Then he nodded slowly. " Ard I'd rebel . . . and we'd . . we'd all be unhappy," Anne aid gently. "Oh, Anne!" It was a desperate leartbroken groan as he drew ber o him. She put her hand up and brushed ler trembling fingers against his (ark hair. "Oh, don't please don't!" she whispered. Anne sat on the porch of the Gra-lada. Gra-lada. Her bajjs had gone to the lock, and she was waiting, her :heeks pale and her eyes dry at ast. for Miguel to come and take ier to the ship. It had been harder tven than she'd thought She could till see him haggard and unhappy, md still hear his pleading voice . . . ivcn after they'd both decided his ather was right "But we'd always have each oth-;r. oth-;r. Anne." It was the last desperate ilea of his heart. "I love you so fou're all I want." |