Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 89: what you’re looking at

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

THE THREE HOSTAGES. ‘take a hand in the game, probably at Sandy’s instigation, and I must find out what exactly she was doing. The business was difficult enough already, with Sandy following his own trail, and me forbidden to get into touch with him, but if Mary was also on the job it would be naked chaos unless I knew her plans. I own I felt miserably nervous. There was nobody in the world whose wisdom I put higher than hers, and I would trust her to the other side of Tophet, but I hated to think of a woman mixed up in something so ugly and perilous. She was far too young and lovely to be safe on the back stairs. And yet I remembered that she had been in uglier affairs before this, and I recalled old Blenkiron’s words: “ She can’t scare and she can’t soil.” And then I began to get a sort of com- fort from the feeling that she was along with me in the game; it made me feel less lonely. But it was pretty rough luck on Peter John. Anyhow I must see her, and T argued that she would probably be stay- ing with her Wymondham aunts, and that in any case I could get news of her there. The Misses Wymondham were silly la- dies, but their butler would have made Montmartre respectable. He and I had always got on well, and I think the only thing that consoled him when Fosse was sold was that Mary and I were to have it. The house in Great Charles Street was one of those tremendously artistic new dwell- ings with which the intellectual plutocracy had adorned the Westminster slums. ‘Ts her ladyship home yet?” I asked. “No, Sir Richard, but she said she wouldn’t be late. I expect her any mo- ment.” “Then I think I'll come in and wait. How are you, Barnard? Found your city legs yet?” ‘“‘T am improving, Sir Richard, I thank you. Very pleased to have Miss Mary here, if I may take the liberty of so speak- ing of her. Miss Claire is in Paris still, and Miss Wymondham is dancing to-night, and won’t be back till very late. How are things at Fosse, sir, if I may make so bold? And how is the young gentleman? Miss Mary has shown me his photograph. A < 423 very handsome young gentleman, sir, and favors yourself.” ‘Nonsense, Barnard. He’s the living image of his mother. Get me a drink like a good fellow. A tankard of beer, if you have it, for I’ve a throat like a grindstone.” I drank the beer and waited in a little room which would have been charming but for the garish color scheme which Mary’s aunts had on the brain. I was feeling quite cheerful again, for Peter John’s photograph — was on the mantelpiece, and I reckoned that any minute Mary might be at the doorway. She came in just before midnight. I heard her speak to Barnard in the hall, and then her quick step outside the door. She was preposterously dressed, but she must have done something to her face in the taxi, for the paint was mostly rubbed from it, leaving it very pale. “Oh, Dick, my darling,” she cried, tear- ing off her cloak and running to my arms. “T never expected you. There’s nothing wrong at home?” “Not that I know of, except that it’s deserted. Mary, what on earth brought you here?” “You're not angry, Dick?” _ * Not a bit—only curious.” “ How did you know I was here?” *Guessed. I thought it the likeliest cover to draw. You see I’ve been watching you dancing to-night. Look here, my dear, if you put so much paint and powder on your face, and jam it so close to old Tur- pin’s chest, it won’t be easy for the poor fellow to keep his shirt front clean.” ‘““ 'You—watched—me—dancing! you in that place?” “Well, I wouldn’t say i it. But I had a prospect of the show from the gallery. And it struck me that the sooner we met and had a talk the better.” “The gallery! Were you in the house? I don’t understand.” “No more do I. I burgled a certain house in a back street for very particular reagons of my own. In the process I may mention that I got one of the worst frights of my life. After various adventures I came to a place where I heard the dickens of a row which I made out to be dance mu- Were oO CORNICE LOOKS .EO ‘ i . 4) Prat! & “s Z P= in | sad