Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 138: what you’re looking at

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

128 For a second Homes did not move, so intent was he upon catching the faintest sound from the next room. Then the sig- nificance of the bell broke upon him and he threw open the door. Craton stood with a kindly smile on his face. In a chair by the desk sat a pretty girl, a little overdressed, but with big, dark eyes and masses of blond hair. Her cheeks, despite the touch of rouge, were deadly pale and her glance—like nothing so much as that of a frightened animal—was turned upon Craton’s face. With the opening of the door she turned and cast a glance of fear and question at the sheriff. Craton passed Homes two envelopes. ‘Ask the others who are waiting—one more has come in—to excuse me for the day. Give each of them an envelope and get rid of them. Come back here.” Homes passed into the next office. When he returned there had come a change in the scene. “Tf you think you’re smart in getting me down here and springing that old bag on me I don’t see it,’ Miss MacKensie was saying. ‘This guy comes around with a fine tale of bunk and I fall. what the idea is, but I’m going.” She flounced out of her chair and toward the door. “Will you change your address, Miss MacKensie?” questioned Craton with a smile, ‘“What’s that to you?”—with a defiant toss of her head. “Tf you are going to move I shall have to have a detective follow you so I can tell the police where you go.” It was said casually, but it was a cruel stab. At the mention of the police the girl swayed, clutched at the wall and sagged down; a trembling, terror-eyed creature, her face ghastly white again and more horrible for the blotches of rouge. ‘“T want to help you,” offered Craton. “T want to save you from having to be bothered by the police.” The girl seemed to grasp at the sugges- tion of help, which was mere in the tone than the words, I don’t know ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. “What do you mean?” she managed to ask, Craton took her by the arm and led her back to her chair. “‘ Sit down,” he urged, “and please believe me when I say that I want to save you from having to go before the police.” Her big eyes, their size intensified by the penciling, lifted to his face in question. He sat down opposite her. “IT want to make a-confession to you. That isn’t your revolver.” ““ What do you mean?” she cried, staring in fascinated awe at the weapon lying on the desk. 3 ‘Tt is one like yours, not the ene you carried with you last night when you went with James Sands to see his father.” ‘Not my revolver—that isn’t mine,” she whispered, hardly realizing that her words admitted much, ‘Your bag, but not your revolver. Were you and Jim Sands going to that prize fight?” She met his gaze and nodded. “He stopped to get some money to be able to bet on the fight, didn’t he?” ven- tured Craton. She gave another little frightened nod, her gaze never leaving Craton’s face. “Just as I thought. What time was_it when you drove up to the house?” ““J—i-—-who said I drove up to any house?” she faltered, trying weakly to es- cape from a trap into which she realized she was slipping. “Well, you did, of course,” smiled Craton. ‘ Don’t you see how I want to help you? If you tell me everything it will help me find the one who fired that shot and so save you from having to go before the police. You’ve read the papers and know that the police have been called in. They'll get the one who murdered Mr. Sands, but they might arrest you first. Now you tell. me everything and I'll save you from a lot of trouble. Don’t want your ‘name in the paper over this thing, do you?” She had blanched in terror at his words and a low moan broke from her lips as her head sank and tears flooded her cheeks. “T didn’t do it,” she moaned. “TI didn’t do it.” 3 SA COMIGOOOKS (S@)