Adventure Magazine Cover — page 102: what you’re looking at

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

Sorcery and Everhard did not want to miss him. I knew very well that he did want to miss me. Maybe his conscience troubled him a little. The papers at the last minute of the city edition’s press-time had thrown on to the front pages a black-typed story of some mysterious man who had “invaded” the apartment of Zoronna Symondi—however, the papers gave the name under which she had leased the apartments—bound the maids, looted it, and for some inexplicable reason had remained in it most of the day and night, then killed Mr. Remy Cantello, who for an equally inexplicable reason had come into the apartment. The body had been discovered by Miss Symondi and Robert Calversley on their return from the theater. This was most amazingly con- firmed by the girl at the switchboard. There was very little in the papers about the affair owing to the late hour of the crime’s discovery; but that little included a passable description of myself. However as at least three out of every ten men one met on the street might easily have an- swered to such a general description as a little above medium height, light-eyed, thin-fea- tured, and in a dark suit, I was not very ap- prehensive. The maids had not known my name; Zoronna and Lord Bob had not given it. Jackman had plugged up the telephone, and would not admit reporters. Two de- tectives, however, called; and I kept out of sight while they talked to Lord Bob. He was more than a match for any detective, particularly when he was not really suspected of anything. Zoronna had disappeared. What is called “foul play” by the newspapers was suspected, and on the part of him who was being called “the man of mystery’—my- self, thanks to the story and description given by the maids. Lord Bob pretended to be anxious, but he knew nothing. So he said. .He was a capable liar. THE afternoon papers were full of 3} excitement and conjecture. The police believed that Miss Symondi = thoagh they had not yet discovered that such was her name—had been ‘done to death” by that mysterious man who had so boldly and desperately invaded her apart- ment, “obviously” for the purpose of mur- | dering her. I shall not go into all that, all the con- IO! jectures, rumors and so forth, for though it made a great stir in the news it did not have any influence on my part in the story. My name did not once crop out. _ I was sup- posed to be in Pittsburg, buried. However at last, somewhere around the early afternoon, I had a conversation with Lord Bob that may be worth telling about. After the detectives left I had Jackman say to Lord Bob that I wanted to see him. He came, wearing a dressing-gown, and with a tall glass of iced liquor to help his nerves. He looked pretty shaky, and he came in rather sullenly. “Oh, ard A blood-spot on your hand!” I said quickly, pointing. He dropped the glass, jumped, stared at his hand, rubbed it, then fastened half- alarmed, suspicious eyes on me. I said that it must have been the way the light fell on his hand. Sullenly he told me that I ought to look twice before I made any such remarks; that his nerves were upset anyway. ‘What do you make of it?” I asked, tap- ping the paper. He made a noise with his throat, an am- biguous, inarticulate sort of sound, and shuffled out for another glass of iced liquor. He came back stirring it with a long spoon, and glared at me with smoldering anger. “Cantello,’” I whispered. you’d lead’ him a merry chase.”’ “You’ve got no right to talk,” he mum- bled, locking into his glass. Of course I asked with an air of innocence what he could mean. “You know what I mean.’ “No,” I assured him. Not exactly.” ‘What were you doin’ in her apartment, anyway?” He wanted to appear angry. He was really worried. “Let me see. Did you give me some as- surance that she was not connected with Hurgronje?”’ I asked. He was startled at that.’ The glass al- most slipped from his fingers again. He gathered his scattered nerves, and, drawing himself up, said earnestly— “T swear to you that she is innocent!” “Of what?” “Of—of what you think. I know it.” . He tried to be emphatic; but I asked— “And what do I think?” “You said COpmicooolkSs (S@)