Ainslee's Magazine, February 1913 — page 68: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

58 nied. “Herbert is too honorable. The outcome of it all was, after father had given Herbert a split lip, and Herbert had presented father with a black eye —oh, a regular scrap, dear, bourgeois to a degree !—father offered Herbert a job in the Paris office, told him he’d see he had all sorts of chances to work up to manager if he had the—er—stuff in him, but for two years he must leave me absolutely alone. Put him on his honor, and all that sort of thing. Her- bert consented, went to Paris on the next train, and—well, that’s how mat- ters are.” “But the accident,” I cried, suddenly remembering it. ‘‘He’s hurt, you say. Where is he?” “That’s the horrible part,” she re- plied. “I don’t know. I’m coming to that as fast as I can. As I was getting out of the limousine just now, a man came toward me. It was rather dark, and I couldn’t see him distinctly, but he had the sort of air that—er—appeals. You always know a gentleman, don’t you?) And {I saw him quite plainly afterward—I switched on the light for a moment. He said he was from Her- bert Callaway, and would I take him to the Union Station in a hurry, while he would tell me something extremely important to myself. I did. In the car he admitted that Herbert had not in- structed him to come to me, but that he was in America on a secret mission, a dangerous mission, was near here, and had been—been shot! He was not at liberty to explain, but he thought I should know that Herbert was in need of money and friends. My father must not know! He said it just like that, must not know!—and warned me not to tell any one—any one, you under- stand—but oh, I He said Her- bert’s very life might depend upon it.” “Good heavens!” I exclaimed, now thoroughly alarmed. “Kit, I was scared blue. I tried not to get hysterical, and do any silly shrieking, and I tried to see things clearly. Herbert needs me, and, more than anything else, he needs my faith in him; you see that, don’t you? I gave the man all the money I had—sixty- AINSLEE’S three dollars and thirteen cents—and told him to come back to-morrow for more. He promised me he would. He impressed upon me the necessity of my being in ignorance of Herbert’s where- abouts because—oh!—I might attempt to go to him!” “It could have been a_ holdup scheme,” I declared. “But it wasn’t,” she insisted. “I thought that all out—that’s the reason I switched on the light, to have a look at him. Kit, if you only had heard the man, you would know how—how fool- ish, ridiculous it would be to suspect. He was so—anxious, and so—silent. Just said those few things that were— were true! I feel it. I know it.” I felt it, too, I couldn’t explain why, and I knew how much trouble could come of silly suspicion, but I made one more effort to discredit the story. “Do you hear from Herbert?” I asked. “Do you know he is not in Paris?” “And that’s the queer part. I don’t know,” she answered. “I get a letter once a month. At Herbert’s suggestion, the letters are sent to father. He, at first—at Herbert’s suggestion—opened them. Lately he has given the letters to me unopened. This month’s letter was due over a week ago. Jt hasn’t come!’ “But letters can go astray,” I assured her. “A thousand things could cause delay. Have you spoken to your father?” “I—I’ve been afraid,” she told me. “Oh, I just knew something terrible was going to happen!” Perhaps it was her own panic that af- fected me; my knees were shaking, my heart had climbed out of its place, and was lodged somewhere in the vicinity of my throat. I tried to think of some- thing ordinary—that’s the way to get back to earth, to think of something ordinary—while through it all was a nagging, persistent query in my mind that had to do with a mysterious pendant which had for its center a most unusual yellow diamond. “Ask your father if the letter has come,” I suggested. “Ask him “4 She came to her feet with her hands (C@) ANU .IOOk (F@)