Argosy All-Story Weekly, Vol. 124, No. 3 — page 77: what you’re looking at

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

THE WHISPERER. she was totally disappointed. He-did not even seem surprised, but leaned against the rail of the veranda, brushing his Iittle mustache with a very slender finger-tip, and looking for all the world as if he had been merely keeping the chair m trust for her. Patricia was quite sure that the man’s blood was no warmer than that of a fish. - She pictured him, in one of those quick visions of hers, fawning and cringing in| the presence of the Whisperer. Indeed, being the servant of such a grim master gave the fellow a sort of dignity. She had to admit it unwillingly. She could only won- der that a lone rider of the mountain-desert could choose so despicable a tool. The man was hardly taller than herself and cer- tainly not a great deal heavier. The only admirable physical characteristic about him ‘was a certain suggestion of lightness for speed. She had seen famous sprinters who had the same delicate, almost perfectly round wrists and ankles, the same marvel- ously slender hands and feet. His foot, in fact, though it was somewhat longer, was hardly a jot wider than her own. These details Patricia gathered in that first steady, rather insolent stare.. ! Then she said: “‘ Thank you for the chair, Mr. St. Gore. I’ve just come in from a long ride—very hot, you | know, and a little tired.” “Ah!” drawled St. a without the slightest meaning in his voice, and then, acting upon sudden inspiration: ‘‘ By jove, the Widow Morgan has just made a pitcher of delightfully cool lemonade. May I bring ‘ You a glass?” | ‘“‘ Thanks!” said Patricia. ‘“ No.” ‘No? It’s really very palatable lemon- ade—not made with the wretched extract.” “Indeed?” said Patricia. ‘“‘ Quite so,” babbled Goggles, “ and the pitcher is so cold—well, there’s frost on it, _ you know!” The description sent a burning pang of thirst down Patricia’s throat and plunging hotly into her vitals, but now that she had first refused she could not well change her mind. Unquestionably she hated the fellow with her whole soul. ‘““ My name,” she broke in, “ is Patricia Lauriston.” 451 She waited for the name to take effect— waited for the guilty start—the flush—the pallor of the coward. Instead he merely stared curiously—a faint curiosity— toward her, and then past her, as if he were lost at the instant in the drifting of a pale, far-off cloud. “ Really,” murmured Goggles, “I’m so happy to know you, Miss Lauriston.” Patricia leaned forward to give the first sharp home-stroke. CHAPTER VI. BAIT FOR THE TRAP. AM the cousin,” she said, “of that Lauriston whose murder you accom- plished through the Whisperer.” At this he started, indeed. Not sharply; it was merely a sudden and rather Inrt glance down at her face, studying her as if he wondered what manner of creature she might be. | “Qh, dear!” sighed Goggles at last. “ You are not going to bring up that hideous old affair?” ‘““T have come several thousand miles for that exact purpose,” said Patricia, and the rage which she had been controlling took her by the throat like a gripping hand, so that her voice trembled and went small. For her whole soul revolted at the thought of that stalwart cousin of hers done to death through this paltry cur. She con- cluded: “ And having come so far, J’m cer- tainly going to do my best to bring mat- ters to a crisis.” 6¢ Goggles sank back against the rail and trailed slender fingers across that broad, pale forehead. ‘Every one,” he complained drearily, ‘has been simply wretched to me since the death of that vulgar fellow, and now you come. Well, I’m very glad that you know it was the Whisperer, and not I, who . committed the murder.” “ No,” said Patricia with a fine disdain, “all your part was to call on the blood- hound and’ set him at the trail of a man you did not have the heart to face by yourself.” ‘““Oh!” said Goggles, and shrank a little GOMLGDOO SS (CO