Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 81: what you’re looking at

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

DINNER FOR CYNTHIA. charge which this impossible old creature would doubtless make, perhaps even a night in a cell, vindication, of course, but a flashy newspaper story as well—after which, to one of Cynthia’s mold, even vindication would not mean much. ‘Then she spoke: “Don’t do it, Towner. I—lI’ve never been quite so humiliated in all my life, but if you wish to have me searched, do so!” “Hah! Got it tucked away already, have you?” said Mrs. Stone. “ Well, my eyes are as quick as the next fellow’s, and I never saw you do it!” “Graves,” cried Cynthia, please do as she wishes?” “‘ T—-ves, miss!” the sour maid muttered, almost sympathetically, as she approached. “Look for pockets first,” clicked deter- minedly from the elder lady. ‘“‘ Probably she has none in that dress. More likely to be in one of her shoes or somewhere in her stockings. See if she’s got ’em rolled, Graves. If you can’t find it without un- dressing her, Towner ‘ll have to get out and she’ll have to be undressed.” ‘“ There’s—just the one pocket on this side, ma’am,”’ Graves mumbled, for she had no liking at all for this kind of perform- ance. “ Nothing but her handkerchief in . there, Mrs. Stone.” “Well, use your wits, confound you!” the lady boomed. ‘ She’s cleverer than you are, Graves. Pull the thing out—shake it out carefully—look in the pocket while you have it out and—/a! ha!” Nor was this high-pitched exclamation without its very sound reason. Graves had indeed drawn forth Cynthia’s delicate little handkerchief and had indeed shaken it out. And from its filmy folds, a glittering dia- mond lace pin had dropped, striking the rug with a soft little thud, lying there now all ablaze with tiny lights! “will you CHAPTER VIII, TRAPPED. we H!” gasped Towner, and threw up his hands in boundless horror and astonishment; he was by no means _ the perfect butler, imperturbable under all conditions. There was something almost thing before! “And still, it was rolled up in your hand- — broken hearted, in fact, in the fascinated stare he directed at Cynthia. ‘““ Well—well—why—”’ faltered Gime and stooped and retrieved the bauble and s no more than gazed blankly at it for a little. Mrs. Stone, however, was not even slight ly jarred by the discovery. Her eyes were sad, now, and her diminutive smile was cynical and weary. She shook her head as — she considered Cynthia. “The same old story—the same old story!” she muttered. ‘ There isn’t a soul in the world that can really be trusted! There’s not—” “* Stop—stop that!” Cynthia cried, wild- ly, for breath had at last returned to her. ‘I never—you know that I never took that pin! I never laid eyes on the filthy IT never—” kerchief, wasn’t it?” Mrs. Stone inquired, and the cynical quality of her smile grew more marked. “Tf it was, I didn’t put it there! You know that I didn’t put it there! It—it wasn’t there! This woman must have had it in her hand and—” “Tah!” sighed Neville’s grandmother, _ as Graves drew back indignantly. “Oh, but I can’t think how you ever come to do it, miss!” Towner exploded, brokenly. ‘I can’t thing what drove you to this! inal, I’d swear! and young—?” “Shut up, Towner; Mrs. Stone said drearily. back in the box, Graves. Now—as to you!” she muttered, and her dreadful eyes bored meditatively into Cynthia’s poor, frozen little soul. Slowly, she sat down in the chair behind her, eyes never leaving Cynthia. She fold- ed her hands upon her cane and the eyes drilled on and on, darkly, and giving no Why, you look so sweet you’re tiresome,” hint at all of what was going on behind — them. And at about this point, you will sug- gest, Cynthia should have broken into pas= sionate, compelling protestations of her — The fact of the mat-— complete innocence. ter is that, at this stage of the ordeal, ——s = Jee OK ~~ = poe ne You’re not a natural-born crim- — ‘Put the thing os - " - —<— tar tS . = ~ tp = . = ey =