Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 44: what you’re looking at

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

678 “A gentleman to ask about rooms, ma’am.”’ Amalie’s heart sank. She had not ad- vertised for weeks. But she was still for- mulating her refusal to see the “ gentle- man ”’ when a face loomed above the shoul- der of the somnolent maid. ‘“Are you the person I see?” it asked abruptly. Victoria gratefully withdrew, thereby giving the face its due of tweed garbed torso and a little more than its due of long, tweed clad legs. The face itself was thin, with a high bridged nose, fierce gray eyes, and a tight, unsmiling mouth. The hat he had jerked off at sight of Amalie disclosed an abundance of iron gray hair not too care- fully combed. He looked first at Amalie and then about the cozy room with a sort of furtive belligerence as he fumbled in his pocket and produced a crumpled newspaper clipping. ‘““T cut this out of a paper some weeks ago,” he said, ‘‘ but circumstances kept me —er—well, is the room still vacant?” It came so straight that she had no time to dissemble. “Yes, but—” “This says”—he tapped the clipping smartly — ‘‘‘ gentlemen only.’ Does it mean what it says?” ‘““ Yes, of course, but—”’ “You have only gentlemen house?” é¢ Wace 22 ‘““ Where’s the room?” “In front of this, It has a private bath.” The answer came swiftly, without her voli- tion, 4 * T’'ll look ‘at it,” he decided. But her fear of him, savage as he was, was not so great as her dread of adding an- other warring factor to her ménage. ‘“ Tt’s—it’s very expensive,” she parried. “How much?” ‘‘ Twenty-five dollars a week,” she said desperately. “Tl look at it,” he repeated. the leoks of things here.” Amalie realized that it would be scarcely politic to tell him that she could not share his point of view. But she thought of the pugnacious Dew, and the literary light, and in the “T like ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. the fastidious Carl. She thought of the added responsibility suggested by this fierce person, and she discarded her conscience. “Tt isn’t any too well heated. And it’s dark, I’m afraid. I don’t think it would do for you.” “How do you know it wouldn’t?” he barked. ‘“ That’s for me to decide, isn’t itt She led the way miserably. He stamped about the room, poked his massive head into the neat little bath, came back to her. “This will do,” he announced. “ I’ll come right in.” “ But I’m not at all suré you’re going to like it—and I have to have my money in advance, you know.” He reached for his wallet, not in the least disturbed by this announcement. ‘“* Now, this ‘ home atmosphere ’ bunk -in your ad—” “Oh, but that ad—” “ T don’t want it,” he went on. ‘“ I want a place where I shall be left alone.” His eyes dropped away from hers furtively. “ I may only be here one or two nights a week, but when I’m sere I want a little peace, solitude.” “ But—but ”—her ‘““ have you references?” “No,” he roared; “ but I’ll pay a month in advance. I don’t answer a lot of darn fool questions. I won’t run off with your furniture, you may be sure of that. I don’t like furniture. I like books—and a little peace and privacy. I want a place where I can come and go as I please. I won’t be questioned. I won’t have callers, nor phone calls. If you don’t want me on those terms, all right. If you do, just write a receipt for this.” He extended two fifty dollar «bills, new, crisp, yellow. Amalie took them mechani- cally along with the fountain pen and torn notebook leaf he proffered. She wrote “ Received from—” and looked up inquir- ingly. ‘“* Never mind the name,” he said. “ Just put ‘ Received for parlor floor front.’ You won’t have any need for my name,” ‘“T don’t,” repeated Amalie incredulously, “even have to know your name?” voice was thin— CoOMmcooolkkSsse©