Marion Marlowe in Chicago, or, Trapped by a Lunatic — page 18: what you’re looking at

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

MY QUEEN. carried through a pitch-black alley to the door of a dark, forlorn-looking building. She tried to speak, but every faculty seemed paralyzed, and, in the plunge from _ the carriage, she had dropped her tiny weapon. She was entirely at the mercy of her cap- tors now, but at least it was a relief to be free from the maniac in the carriage. After a great deal of fumbling at a rusty _. Jock, she felt herself being led into a room, -_ ‘? + 4 é .. ? but it was so dark that she could not see her hand before her face. A few steps further, and something im- peded their progress. It was a wooden bench cf some sort, and the fellow seated her upon it. Then he lighted a smoky kerosene lamp that was suspended from the ceiling, and the next moment Marion was alone in her hid- eous surroundings. It was some time before she was calm enough to look around. When she did she discovered that the room was quite a large one, and was furnished with a dozen or more small, dirty wooden tables, with innumer- able chairs piled one on top of another. “The back room of a saloon,” she whis- pered to herself. “Oh, how will I ever es- cape, and what will they do with me?” _* She leaned her head upon one of the tables” and a burst of tears relieved her. ' Then it suddenly occurred to her that she had not heard a sound from her captors. She moved cautiously from her seat and crept over to the door. It was at least a foot thick; no sound could penetrate it. A moment later her quick eye discovered something strange about one of the panels, and detaching the smoking lamp from its chain, she held it close to the curious object. It was merely a small knob, but she knew at once what it was for. There was a small slide in one of the heavy panels that could be opened. | She went back to the table and set down the lamp, then softly extinguished the blaze and crept again to the panel. There was not so much as a creak as she slid the small board softly from its place, _ but instantly a perfect bedlam of voices came _ through the aperture. _ There was the clatter and clink of glasses “supe” 15 and bottles and a perfect deluge of profanity ; then came the unmistakable lingo of the low- est class of Italians. “Negroes and Italians!” she whispered, with the blood freezing in her veins; “and all mad with drink! Oh, this is awful!’ But, although the sight made her weak with terror, she kept her eye at the tiny open- _ ing which she had made in the panel. A score or more of men were drinking in the room, and in the midst of them sat Percy Preston, with a fellow at his side, whose voice had sounded so surprisingly familiar. Marion stared at him sharply, but the light in the saloon was flickering and dim; it was a full minute before she recognized his feat- ures, , “Bill Jones, the ‘supe,’ another of poor Mr. Temple’s enemies!” She recognized the fellow with a fresh thrill of horror. Now it was clear, indeed! The plot was premeditated ! The confusing babel of tongues seemed to increase every moment, but the young girl seemed unconscious of everything for a time but the face of Percy Preston. He sat with a glass of whisky before him in the very center of the excited crowd, but his face was as expressionless as a piece of marble. ee i's They thought him drunk, but nothing more. It seemed incredible to her that they could be so stupid. Bill Jones was talking to them as fluently as he could, and trying to make himself heard above the hubbub and confusion. Suddenly there was almost total silence ; even the clink of glasses ceased, and the ex- sprang excitedly upon one of the dirty tables. “I know how we'll fix it!” Marion heard him say, distinctly. “It’s the fairest way of all. What do you say to a raffle >” A perfect roar of approval went up from the drunken crowd, and even the insane actor seemed to take a little interest. Another bedlam of broken Italian and coarse English followed the suggestion, and then Marion could see a new variety of ex- citement, “Thank God! they have forgotten me for the time!’ she whispered -to: herself.“