Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 49: what you’re looking at

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

GENTLEMEN ONLY. He looked speculatively at her and 2 fierce defiance came into his eves. “Well, I’m obliged to you, anyway.” “Oh, that’s all right,” she told him in- consistently enough. He let himself part way out into the hall. ‘“And now, you probably think I owe you an explanation,” he said contentiously. “That’s the way with women—they get you one way or another. But I won’t ex- plain—”’ his voice rose angrily; ‘‘ I paid for my right to peace and privacy and it’s up to you to see that I get it—”’ But Amalie’s gentle spirit rose up at that. ‘ T haven’t asked you for an explanation,” she told him indignantly. “I don’t want an explanation. I don’t want to know the first little thing about you. I have enough responsibility as it is. If I had to know things about you if would be just that much more to bear and I tell you I won’t bear any more. So there!” She made a rush for her own room, slammed the door behind her, leaving the mysterious lodger gazing after her as if he had just encountered a lively ghost. Well, that was that, Amalie reflected and was grateful to Charley Dew for the ex- pression. She had had a narrow escape. Another moment and he might have told her all and she would have been forced to shoulder his guilt. He might have told her that he was a murderer and she would have bad to turn him over to the police; he might have told her that the money with which he had paid for his room, was stolen and she would have had to give it back. Or he might have confessed that he was starving and she would have had to feed him. As it was, she told herself stoutly, her defense of him was merely a matter of self protection. He might not be the person the square toed shoes were trailing. Any- way, it was none of her business. His very ambiguity was the most comforting thing about him—that and the fact that their relationship was so beautifully impersonal. She had made no compromises with him out of sympathy and he did not feel that he must “ protect ” her, as a consequence. The whole arrangement was eminently business- like. + 683 But if Amalie refused to lift the shroud of mystery in which her new lodger had wrapped himself, the zealous trio were not so finical. Despite her spirited admonitions; despite her protests that the blameless con- duct of the stranger entitled him to the undisturbed privacy he had demanded, her arguments appeared only to feed their fears. The stranger’s conduct might be blameless —it was also furtive. She was, they pointed out, in constant danger. It was her right and her duty to exact from him the informa- tion he had withheld. If she continued to refuse, the task automatically devolved upon them. Amalie, trying desperately to regain the foothold of authority her gentleness had cost her, told them that they really mustn’t worry. The stranger was a gentleman— she was convinced of it. And if she was willing to take the risk of his unexplained presence—well—” She let it hang there significantly while they muttered among themselves. But it was not until Philip Swift came face to face with the suspect in the hall one evening, that their nebulous animosity took definite form. It was an inadvertent meet- ing, detailed immediately afterward to Mr. Howe and the wireman by the shaken Mr. Swift. “The man’s undoubtedly a fugitive—a criminal of some sort,” he asserted emphati- cally. “I ran into him, you see—it was quite unexpected—but I spoke civilly enough. He was carrying a bundle—it was carelessly wrapped—” “Booze, probably,” hazarded Charlie Dew grimly. “ Or somebody’s jewels!” appended Carl Howe. “At any rate,” Mr. Swift broke in a little resentfully, ‘“‘ I thought it an excellent opportunity to speak with him—give him a chance to sort of justify himself. So I said ‘Good evening! I’m Swift, second floor back. I understand you’ve just joined our little family.’ I stood between him and the door, so he had to answer me. Well— he did!” “What did he say?” * Make it snappy, bo!” But the literary light was in perfect fever oO CoOMmicbooolks (S@)