Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 13: what you’re looking at

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

LORETTA BRODELL. in the American Expeditionary Force. He was a poloist, and otherwise an athlete of considerable fame. He was big, agile, cat- like, still fairly young. He was the worst man in the world to be caught by while dealing from the bottom of the deck, for he was a sportsman, That was his only occupation at present; in the past he had killed men wholesale—dozens - of them, they said. That was in the war, of course. There was also some terrible Story of his father killing three men in a duel with swords in Baton Rouge, And his brother—well, the whole family in fact were murderers. _ When the sallow faced and nimble fin- gered Mr. Morduant saw this gentleman lay down his magazine and leave his chair, he turned still paler. He would have trembled in the knees if he had only known how that magazine story had been heating Mr. Chil- ton’s blood. He was in a murderous frame ~of mind. Two minutes later pages stood with eyes bulging, mouths agape. Silver haired, ele- gant gentlemen in immaculately pressed and tailored suits gathered about, club members, guests and attendants were alike astounded at the spectacle. They saw Mr. Morduant adjusting his perfectly fitting frock coat, his disarranged wing collar, his silken scarf. On his smooth jaw blood trickled down, making a rivulet in the brunette face powder. He had been struck in the mouth, he had failen, he had arisen with the light gone out of his dazed eyes. In front of him-stood the irate and flushed gentleman with whom he had been so quietly playing cards. By the side of this latter stood that tall, long-faced, gray- eyed, rather homely and dangerous gentle- man who had been reading a Wild West yarn. Mr. Chilton was inscrutably calm, immovable, except that he was wiping his fist with a linen handkerchief. Morduant thrust the back of his long fingered hand across his bleeding mouth. “ Mr. Chilton,” he said quietly, but loud- ly enough so that in the deathlike silence every one in the library could hear, ‘ you are a scurvy dog and a liar!” Silence. But from the distant outside 323 world beyond that crystal-like plate glass and those arched windows there came the blare of automobile horns on Fifth Avenue. So quiet was it that you could hear the slow clip-clop of a horse out there. Then Chil- ton replied: “Mr. Morduant, I will not repay that insult here—in this environment. But if you ever cross my path again, I will kill - you!” : The flushed gentleman with the blue eyes seemed equal to the delicate demands of the situation. He did not raise his voice even though he had been drinking and was now violently excited. He could not, however, refrain from making the very extraordinary remark there before the club members and their guests: ““T will see that you pay me, Mr. Mor-. duant. I don’t propose to forget how much you have won from me in this manner dur- ing the past month.” 3 It was disgraceful, unforgivable—the whole business. And all right there before the members, the attendants and quite a number of guests! What could have been worse? A murder could be outlived, but nothing like this! Why couldn’t they have written a letter or something of that sort? Morduant would have been blackballed likewise. The only one who had behaved in any way like a gentleman was Dr. Rivers—who was in- toxicated. What could be done? Nothing now, of course. Luckily enough all three men separated. The members, attendants and cuests likewise melted away, and groups be- gan to form in every corner of the club in which each member tried to find out as best he could what it was all about. Dr. Rivers stumbled off to the buffet to get a drink. Mr, Morduant glided immedi- ately to a desk, rang for paper and wrote out his resignation. James Chilton returned to his magazine: A terrific, bone-crashing blow sent his next assailant tumbling down the cafion walls. Mounting his horse and holding the girl in his arms as he galloped madly down the barranca trail, Big Tim Marraday reached the red bowlder. He was under cover in the nick of time! Bullets spattered, ricocheted, dug into the sand, the sojuara, the granite. cS oO GCOMmichoo (S@)