"Names make news." Last week these names made this news:

A large car with a negro chauffeur sped a man and woman from California into Arizona. When it failed to stop at the border inspection station near Toprock, an irate motorcycle policeman chased it a mile down the road, waved it to the side of the road. He looked at the two passengers. A sheepish grin came over his face. He waved them on. At Holbrook, Ariz., stopping for the night, they registered as Robert Brown and Mary Jones, took rooms 12 & 17. Next morning as they paid their bill, Hotel Proprietor Joe Gerwitz looked at the woman in dark glasses, smirked. They sped away, stopped at Williams for gasoline. The filling station man looked at them, grinned. When they reached Grand Canyon they registered as Mary Jones and Robert Bonji, took a three room suite, changed to hiking togs, went out for some fun. A smiling park official approached, asked. ''Well, what have you to say today?" They fled back to the hotel, changed again, headed back to California. Stopping for the night at Kingman they registered as Robert Brown and Miss Brown. Meanwhile telegraph wires were humming. Newshawks searched every town hall on the route, at Holbrook, Williams, Kingman. Flagstaff, to trace a marriage license. None was found. By telegraph the number of the car was checked with California license records, found to belong to Greta Garbo. Next morning in Hollywood newshawks called the home of Garbo's director, Armenian Rouben Mamoulian.

Mr. Mamoulian: There seems to have been quite a stir, doesn't there? And all for nothing. No, we're not married. . . .

Newshawk: Is there any romance between you?

Mr. Mamoulian: Oh. I think that question is too personal, don't you?

In 1842 Edgar Allan Poe took his 20-year-old wife Virginia Clemm and his mother-in-law to a "rose-covered cottage" at No. 530 N. Seventh St., Philadelphia. There he wrote The Raven, The Masque of the Red Death, The Black Cat. In 1929 the cottage, ramshackle and slum-shadowed, was purchased by Department Storeman Richard Gimbel who founded a Memorial Society to preserve it. On Poet Poe's 125th birthday last week 1,500 guests of the Society heard his praise spoken by Owen D. Young, Heywood Broun, William Lyon Phelps, saw the cottage dedicated to his memory.

"I don't think you need any grounds in Mexico," said shambling, amiable Columnist Heywood Broun in admitting that he had been divorced two months ago in Nogales by dreamy-eyed Ruth Hale, No. 1 Lucy Stoner. In her apartment in Manhattan's Hotel Des Artistes, where her ex-husband also lives, voluble Miss Hale sipped a cocktail, elaborated: "I always wanted to be an old maid. There are women like that. But being so much in love with Broun ... I did marry, and I did have a most enchanting boy. And then it was a long road to travel to get back to being a spinster. ... I wouldn't make an accusation against that man for anything in the world -- he's been perfectly magnificent. . . . Our parting was gentle, quiet and refined." In 1917 Ruth Hale, theatrical press agent, first met Columnist Broun, sat with him in Central Park. A squirrel came up and begged for food. Miss Hale recalled the rest : "I, being tenderhearted, said, 'He does terribly want peanuts.' The stranger beside me on the bench growled, 'I can't help it, but I'll give him a nickel and he can go and buy his own peanuts.' There and then I knew I'd marry that man."

One shirt was all that Colonel Robert Isham Randolph, sartorially perfect member of Chicago's famed "Secret Six." had for a 20-day sea trip from Manhattan to San Francisco when the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad lost his four trunks.

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