By John o'Hara

Seymour M. Harrisburg put away the breakfast dishes and took off his wife's apron and hung it in the kitchen closet. He frowned at the clock, the face of which was an imitation dinner plate, and the hands of which were a knife and fork.

He tiptoed to the bedroom, put on his vest, coat and hat, and with one glance at the vast figure of his wife, he went to the door of the apartment. Opening the door he looked down and saw, lying on the floor, the half-clad body of Beatrice Delvin, the chorus girl, who lived in the adjoining apartment. Thus began the public career of Seymour M. Harrisburg.

Miss Delvin was quite dead. Part of Miss Delvin's jaw had been torn away by a bullet or bullets, but she had not been disfigured beyond recognition. Mr Harrisburg, observing that there was some blood on his hand, wanted to run away, but it was five flights down to the street in the automatic elevator. Then his clear conscience gave him courage and he returned to his apartment and tele­phoned for the police.

He readily agreed not to touch anything and not to leave, and sat down to smoke a ciga­rette. He became frightened when he thought of what was lying on the other side of the floor, and in desperation he went to the bedroom and shook his wife.

"Get the hell out of here," said Mrs Harrisburg.

"But, Ella," said Mr Harrisburg.

"The girl next door, the Delvin girl, she's been murdered."

His repetition of the news finally convinced Mrs Har­risburg, and she sat up and ordered him to fetch her bathrobe.

They questioned him at some length, frankly suspi­cious and openly skeptical until the officer in charge finally said: "Aw, puup, we can't get anything out of this mug. He didn't do it anyhow." Then as an afterthought:

"You sure you didn't hear anything like shots? Automobile backfiring? Nothing like that? Now think!"

"No, I swear honest to God, I didn't hear a thing."

Shortly after the officers completed the preliminary examination, the medical examiner arrived and an­nounced that the Delvin woman had been dead at least four hours, placing her death at about 3 a. m.

Mr Harrisburg was taken to the police station, and submitted to further questioning. He was permitted to telephone his place of employment, the accounting depart­ment of a cinema-producing corporation, to explain his absence.

He was photographed by four casual young men from the press. At a late hour in the afternoon he was permitted to go home.

His wife, who also had been questioned by the police, had not missed the point of the early questions which had men with whom he lunched almost daily were respectfully attentive and curious. Mr Harrisburg, inspired, gave many details which he had not told the police.

The next day he purchased a new suit of clothes. He had been considering the purchase, but it now had become too important a matter for further postponement. What with being photographed and interviewed, and the likeli­hood of further appearances in the press, he felt he owed it to himself to look his best.

He agreed with his wife that he likewise was entitled to sartorial protection against the cruelty of the camera, and he permitted her to draw two hundred dollars out of their joint savings account.

THE GARDEN-PARTY