Adventure Magazine Cover, December 18, 1919 — page 186: what you’re looking at

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

LEVEN — \ AAS SY ff, “ y f ch te WO 34. ANS j Y f WS af if , j \ } is Wm Ny ‘ Red > | , ‘ | ‘ 4 ' ~* j aot | GORDON YOUNG Author of “Gaboreao the Terrible,” “ Born to Be Hanged But—, etc. HEARD a noise at the door and sat quietly. J recognized it as the faint sound of sensitive fingers try- ing a skeleton key. 3 The room was dark and it was one of the so-called wee sma’ hours when even those with uneasy consciences are sup- posed to be asleep and when, as if to es- tablish a compensating ratio, even the faintest of noises, the little creaks and rustles that are scarcely audible in day- light, are as noticeable to a listener as.the clatter of bronze. ‘ Not having much humor, I did not call out an invitation to come in. Besides, the person in the hall seemed already de- termined on that. As I was not in bed, but had dozingly remained on the chatse- longue when I turned out the reading- lamp by my side, I saw no reason at all for disturbing my visitor’s entrance. I was not surprized that some one, un- invited and at such an hour, should try to come, Not that I had been waiting for such a one. Not at all. It would have taken more to keep me awake than the fear that somebody might steal the black jewel-casket from off my table. , ‘Sleep does not come easily to me, nor remain long. I was in pajamas, with a blanket thrown over my legs, and I had, with a great show of patience, been of- fering myself to what the poets call Mor- pheus. I do not want anybody to think that worry or anything of the sort kept the bewitching kindness of sleep from my eyes, nor am I a sufferer from insom- nia. I don’t sleep much; that is all. I ™~ 172 am not a sufferer from anything, unless it be the meddlesomeness of people who misjudge me. One of those who were misjudging me seemed to be at the door then, trying the unresisting lock. £1, PES I would do well to pause and say a word about the casket. It did not belong to me. But I had as good right to it as the man I took it from, His name was Blackstone. He was a new- comer to San Francisco, but the police | of very few if any cities knew about him. Not that he was clever. No. He was handsome, or not handsome exactly, but he had much about him that fascinated women. He was skilful at compromis- ing women, then heartless in making them pay. - So he had a good income, money in the bank, and posed as a gentle- man. It was very foolish of him to come to me, though he did not know that I knew all about how he had tried to get me into trouble a year before in New York. He was two-faced and treacherous, as men who fascinate women usually are. Among the things he had said was that the man who killed me would never be brought to trial—which may possibly be true. When one has the undeservedly notorious reputation of gambler and gun- man, such as mine, the law is not likely to be very excited over the way he meets death, Blackstone had gone so far as to say that some day he was going to “get”’ con