Adventure, January 20, 1922 — page 104: what you’re looking at

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

TO2 “T see. You think every crook has done time. There are exceptions, Miss Cabron.” She laughed, pleased, tolerantly tri- umphant. “Oh I am not guessing, Mister Middle- ton. Usually you are very careful about your finger-prints and all. Usually go gloved—to work. But there are ways of finding out things, particularly when one has as many friends at Headquarters as I have—and sample finger-prints. Oh, much more easily found than a key to an apart- ment. I, you see, got both.” Leela dangled a key before his face, and when he reached up to éxamine it she jerked it away. “T had too much trouble getting this one,” she said. “No need for trouble about that. Tve often bribed superintendents of apartment- houses—or their maids.” Leela threw back her head and regarded him with the air of one who had both hands full of trumps. She asked: ‘Would it interest you—a story I heard from a friend of mine? It is about a certain man, a white man—not a dago—and a half-breed Chinaman, who, together shot their way out of a penitentiary not so very far from here——” Middleton watched her with no appear- ance of interest; but she was not at all de- ceived by his composure. She knew that he knew there was no possibility of getting her belief to let go of the facts; and she be- gan to realize that his poise and self-control were greater,than she had admiringly thought. “Odd, isn’t it, Muster Middleton, that this fellow who broke out of stir with the monk should be the same person who robbed our house?” She continued to regard him with smil- ing triumph. But he showed no anxiety, not even curiosity; until at last, almost exasper- ated, she demanded— “Why don’t you ask how I know?” “Do you?” he said indifferently. “Ves. My friends in the identification bureau—I took a little red goblet that sat on the mantel to my friends. Oh, they were greatly interested. They told me all about this wonderful crook who broke prison, and they are so anxious to meet him. Did you ever hear of such an individual, Mister Middleton?”’ As composedly as if denying it he nodded and said with sardonic quietness: Adventure “You win, Miss Cabron. May I con- gratulate you on your—ah—afhliations with the detective bureau?” Leela’s face went red as if sunburned. The insult was impaling, and she had brought it upon herself. He added: “Of course, in telling your friends how you came by the finger-prints you mentioned Black Wolf. There is, I be- lieve, a reward of some kind. Two or three rewards. But of course you are familiar with that. However, I suppose that like many of those who serve in the police de- partment, you have a price. Name it.” She was rigid, staring with enigmatic severity. “Yes—” slowly, significantly, inescapa- bly—“‘T have a price.” Middleton spoke up quickly, making a slight gesture, palms upward: “T know—by the way you say it, I know it isn’t money. Money is all I have. Not a great deal of that. But some—some.” “T am not a blackmailer,” said Leela al- most imploringly. “Don’t you know I would tear my tongue out before I would tell the police where to find you? Don’t you know I swore that I did not see your face? Oh, I came here tonight to warn you of Cabron himself?’ Then beseechingly, with the complete self-crushed humbleness of a proud woman, she caught at his shoulder, holding him, gripping him, drawing him toward her, and she whispered fiercely: “T love you. I love you, Black Wolf. Never have I told that to any man but you —not though I have lied to a thousand. But this is truth, Black Wolf: I love you!” Her eyes almost closed. They were aglow with yielding, melting passion, and the whisper became soft, seductive, as she pulled at him and formed her lips to meet the kiss she begged: “Kzss me! Kiss me! I love you—oh, how I love you!” {“) the word love covers every form of affection from a friendly marriage to fierce eroticism; but the sort of emotion that poets and criminologists have in mind when thay say “love” is a heedless, un- questioning passion that is, or closely re- sembles, madness in that it has no dis- crimination, no modesty, no sense. It may endure a lifetime, or it may vanish as other IN THE casual misuse of language COmiclboooks (C@)