Argosy All-Story Weekly, December 2, 1922 — page 147: what you’re looking at

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

THE TRUE STEEL. she’s gone he can’t do anything. You see the way I’m fixed, don’t ye?”’ “Tl take her,” said John Peter Warri- ner. ' He drew out a morocco billfold. ‘“ Here’s part of your money. Come for the rest to-morrow. Unlock the door and order my chaise at once.” “ Glad you come, hey?” chuckled Snarg as his fingers closed upon the money. They went out into the hall, he turned the key in the door of the girl’s room and then went creaking downstairs to order the. chaise. Warriner lifted the latch and stepped inside. The girl had sprung up at the first sound, evidently. Now, pale as death, she backed slowly to the wall. “Bon soir, mademoiselle!” Warriner spoke as gently as he could. ‘“‘ I have come to help you.” “Oh!” She lifted her arms to heaven. ‘Thank God you speak French! Deliver me from this terrible place, monsieur! From that terrible man! From the drunk- en monsieur who was here last night! From everything! Take me back to my home in beautiful Canada. God and His angels will reward you!” “ Be tranquil, mademoiselle,”’ said War- riner. ‘“‘ You are going to leave this place with me, and at once!”’ She ran toward him with hands out- stretched, like a frightened child. Warri- ner sprang and caught her as she pitched forward, fainting. He lifted her and went downstairs with her slender body limp in his arms and her head upon his shoulder. Snarg met him, smelling of fresh spirits. “All ready!” he exclaimed hoarsely. “ Nice little armful, but I’m durned glad to see the last of her. Be after the rest of the money to-morrow, sir!” Without replying Warriner climbed into the chaise, gathered up the reins in one hand, and drove for home as though the devil were after him. Limp and warm and helpless against his heart. Toby Snarg was right. He had been hard hit. John Peter Warriner, a young gentleman of fortune who had made the grand tour, who knew his Horace and thought in terms of the eighteenth century philosophy, had succumbed to the black velvet eyes and pearl tinted skin of-a little 617 Canadienne. No, it was neither the skin nor the eyes. It was that flame of life with- in her which burned with a light just a little different from every other flame of life in the world. She, no doubt, would call it her immortal soul. Warriner accepted the inevitable, and joyously. After a time she stirred, and her arms clung to him. “My father!” she whispered. ‘“ Ah— but I have had a bad dream! Mon Dieu!” She cried out and struggled as she came fully to herself. Warriner held her as gen- tly as he could. ‘You have nothing more to fear made- moiselle,”’ he said. ‘“ Very soon you shall be quite comfortable.” He felt her crying softly, heard the broken murmur of her prayers, and then they drew up before the pillars of the manor. He carried her into the drawing- room and put her down in a great velvet- upholstered chair. He lighted every can- dle, so that polished furniture and brasses gleamed. He stood by the fireplace and looked down at her. She was a rare gem in a worthy setting, “ Mademoiselle,’ he said, “I am John Peter Warriner, and this is Warriner Manor. Will you tell me who you are?” She had recovered a degree of self-pos- Session now-——a really marvelous reaction after what she had been through. Her fear seemed to have gone. “T am Mlle. Marianne Fortier,’ she said, “of Quebec. We were at our villa on the St. Lawrence above the city when my friend. Alma-Rose was drowned and those men picked me up. The captain was drunk, and he could not speak French, any- way. I was helpless. My father would have paid them. I suppose they were afraid—”’ “Yes,” agreed Warriner. smugglers.” He stood looking down at her in silence. Very likely his heart was in his eyes, for Mile. Fortier shot an uneasy glance at him. “Monsieur,” she said, ‘ you are a gen- tleman. You are going to send me home, aren’t you?”’ Now within John Peter Warriner stirred a little something of the spirit of those far ancestors of his who rode with drawn sword ‘“ They are Gomichbooks.com