Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 28: what you’re looking at

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

_ This was also locked and the key in ence to proclaim the impossibility of pnnors’s disappearance in that direction. Their wonder grew as it dawned upon them that there was not a window in the ‘room. The scant furnishings were next consid- ered. There were three tables, six chairs and a refrigerator. The latter was about four feet wide, six in height, and perhaps two deep. It was packed with a general stock of saloon merchandise. Bailey opened the comparatively small refrigerator door, and a bottle slipped to the floor. ‘It would have been a physical! impos- sibility for him to have disappeared in this direction,” said Bruce. Finally they examined the floor—foot by foot. Not so much as a loose board was in evidence. It seemed quite beyond belief that a man could disappear so quickly and silently. ‘‘ He must have passed you in the dark- ness,” said Bruce. ‘Never. I was too close to the door; but suppose we examine the barroom?” The search proved to be a fruitless one. ‘“‘ He must have slipped past us and made for the street through the front door,” said Bailey. ‘“‘ Impossible,” replied Bruce. “ I have the key in my pocket—Connors locked the door behind him the minute we stepped inside— he could not have disappeared by way of this front room.”’ ‘“ Listen, what’s that?’”’ exclaimed Bailey. As they listened—in silence, straining to register the full significance of the shout that had startled them—they distinctly heard the call: ‘“ Bruce—Bailey—help— ‘It was Connors’s voice, outside in the street, and was followed by subdued mutter- ‘ings and the sound of scuffling feet. | CHAPTER V. s under the stress of in- ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. The lock was ancient and the key was cum- bersome. Once it was opened they fairly tumbled out of the Cracker Pot, only to find that they were engulfed in a mass of drifting fog. The street lamps no longer battled for recognition, but had succumbed; they were mere negations of light value. In the con- fusion and uncertainty, Bailey grasped the arm of his friend. “ Don’t move until we get our bearings,” he whispered. From some point within the blinding fog they caught the sound of heavy blows, rough oaths, and gruff voices. “This way,” said Bruce, starting diag- onally across the street. Not until they had reached the opposite curb did they discover that their direction was wrong. Then, through a rift, a mo- mentary lifting or drawing of the moist curtain, they saw an indistinct blur that might have been a cab or carriage, and heard the muffled voices of men within it. Likewise, the bang of a closing door. After that the rumble of wheels over the cobbles and the galloping clank of iron-shod hoofs, growing fainter in the distance; moving on into the blackness of the night. That was all. Standing there in the drip and gloom Bailey took a cigar from his pocket and lighted it with exasperating coolness. ‘Sorry you don’t smoke, old man,” said he. “ Awfully comforting, you know, some- times.” Bruce de Lisle did not attempt an imme- diate response. When he did there was a note of helplessness in his voice. ‘‘ What are we going to do?” he asked. ‘Going to do!” exclaimed Bailey. “ We are going to lock up this palace of mirth across the street and go home.” ‘“¢ Think you can sleep?” asked Bruce. ‘* Certainly—that’s one of the compensa- tions of being fat. Besides that, I have a trick brain. A delicate subcellar lobe, that will dig the lining out of any problem over- night. Come on—it’s getting ready to agr tate.” “ That mind of yours will probably be of great value to us, Andy,” said Bruce as they recrossed the street and entered the — comicbooks.com