Argosy All-Story Weekly, July 11, 1925 — page 56: what you’re looking at

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

210 The doorbell rang. Paula stiffened and looked at a wall clock. Her face paled again. “My accompanist!” she gasped. rehearsal! I had forgotten!” ““'Where’s the stairs—a cellar—a clothes closet—anything?”’ demanded Steve, point- ing the pistol. ‘‘ Speak quick!” She pointed to the left and downward. The visitor was about to cry out, but Steve jammed the pistol muzzle against his ear and he wilted. Steve shoved him forward and downward. Paula’s head bowed and then, unsteadily, she walked to the door- way, pulling herself together by sheer will- power. Steve shoved his stumbling prisoner down a flight of steps and into a cellar. He ‘turned on a light switch. The other man ‘tensed. Steve saw it. “Shut up!” he snapped. fighting and I[’ll drill you!” The man’s eyes glared with malevolence, but his lips trembled and he breathed too hard. Steve grabbed him, threw him, bound him, gagged him, searched about. and finally stowed him away in a dark closet alongside a coal bin. Steve trussed him comfortably on the floor and sprang the bolt upon the wooden door of the closet. The metallic click sounded like an overt act. It meant that he had crossed his Rubicon—whatever Rubicon it might be. He stood and stared at the shiny thing for a long time. “T wish I knew what I was doing!” he lamented, plaintively. aa» 8 * You start V. Ir Paula had been ruffled by recent stormy events, all trace of it was gone when Steve returned upstairs to the hallway which led to the front door. The deep-toned chords of a splendid grand piano came from the front room. He peeped through heavy portiéres and observed the girl with the brown hair playing. Michael Hamilton was in a chair at her right, and behind her was Paula—tall, gracious, stately, un- ruffled, as though nothing had ever hap- pened! “ Cool!’? muttered the ranchman in tat- ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. tered gray, standing on the polished hard- wood floor. ‘‘ How do they do it?” Her resonant voice floated forth, beauti- fully trained, perfectly controlled, running through all the emotions of a splendid Saint- Saéns piece; first cajoling, then wistful, then argumentative, declamatory, vehe- ment, violent, ending in a burst of wild, pas- sionate, triumphant music that made the ranchman from the cow country retreat to a settee in a telephone alcove and sit there, staring at the floor and clenching his hands without knowing why. He stayed there a long time until her guests departed. Immediately she sought him. He arose slowly, feeling like a limp dish- rag, so full of inner emotions that outward happenings seemed superficial. ‘What are you doing with that man downstairs?” she demanded, breaking into his trance. “Oh, him? I don’t know.” “ Don’t know?” Steve started pacing the polished floor of the anteroom, speaking frankly: “I overplayed my hand. I should have stayed in the background. Those fellows didn’t know I was your brother. I should have watched this fellow, not captured him. Now I’ve spilled the beans!”” _ Paula’s face showed her poignant disap- pointment. “Stephen! Then you have only inter- fered to make things worse! Ah, do you realize how one false move can betray me— humiliate me before my friends—lay me open to the vengeance of these ruffians?”’ “Well, you got yourself into this!” re- minded Steve, slowly. She made an impatient gesture. “And you have no plan—no idea—~ nothing!” “T’ll fight it out somehow.” “ Violence?” “T don’t know,” he admitted, helplessly. Then his voice became exasperated: “TI don’t want the puzzle any more than you do! Id like to leave this place! I want to go home! If this is society, then I want a nice horse corral; but I’ve got to get your money back! I can’t leave you! I’ve got to fight! Dad would have wanted me to!” micbooks.com (EO) << -; ; ~ fe a