Argosy and Railroad Man's Magazine — page 127: what you’re looking at

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

BACK TO THE MOIL. not our bargain! I was to help you kill him, and you were to hetp me get her.” “Well, baven’t I done it?” Jude remon- strated. Almost insane with fear, Paul de Cardac argued with the bloodthirsty mulatto. Was this to be the end of all his hopes and wild desires? Was he to be tricked like this when success was almost his? He pleaded; he threatened; he prayed, to this fiend who crouched beside him, trembling (To be conciuded \ N Edward Lemp’s several sectional book- cases there was no volume authored by Honoré de Balzac. This was merely an accident of choice, for Lemp was better versed in literature than the ordinary busy American business man. However, in the fact that Lemp had never read a line written by the immortal Frenchman who penned the ‘“ Comédie Humaine,” Jay a droll anachronism. Though, because Balzac lived and worked and joyed and sorrowed and died a long time ago, nobody knew this. Least of all did Lemp himself know it. Yet, in person and in elements of mind, in big, wise, sane outlook upon life, in sense of humor ranging from chuckling subtleties to Gargantuan laughter, Lemp was the living replica of Balzac, whose name he knew rather dimly as that of a writer of tales, and that was all. This sane, sound, sweet sense of humor was Lemp’s chief compensation in living. O Edaasid Walton 469 like some wild animal about to spring upon its victim. Meanwhile the horsemen were filing by, only.a short distance away. Through the grass the whispering men could vaguely see them against the black sky which, from time to time, was threaded by yellow zig- zags of distant lightning. So far, Jude had not fired, but his gun was still ready and De-Cardac expected every moment to hear it explode. NEXT WEEK.) In turn, fate had its jest with him in that he did not know of his uncanny resemblance: to the master whose works he would have reveled in had he known of them. Which proves only that fate is a subtler jester than even the Balzacs of this world. Upon a spring night wherein the chill of- winter’s aftermath lingered, Edward Lemp, in smoking jacket and slippers, sat at ease in an armchair in his apartment within one of the cloud-aspiring cubes on Washington Heights. About him were evidences of happiness, prosperity, and as much contentment as hectic metropolitan standards will allow. First there was an ideal wife, comrade and coworker, who sat next him, knitting. In additien to teese graces Eunice Lemp pessessed #hat of brunette beauty that had not withered with the years. Now in mid- dle life she appeared even younger, and her attraction, ‘which was of the tall and conmiclooolks.comn