The Argosy, August 1914 — page 122: what you’re looking at

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

112 Amid the silence that still held all in the room the host pried away one of the pearl studs from his shirt - front, and surrendered it. The “ professor ” salaamed. “Wonderful!” he murmured. “And now—I am a man of my word.” He drained his glass. “I go. Good night, David Grelthorpe. Good night, cream de la créam!” Rising to his feet, he bestowed a comprehensive bow on the assembled company and walked ma- jestically toward the door. Near it he stopped, lost in contemplation of a flunky. : ‘Who are you?” he asked. The flunky’s mouth opened and shut without emitting a sound. On his brow beads of perspiration started forth. Professor Copernicus, with a loud burst of mocking laughter, strode across the hall and vanished through the front door. For a minute or so nobody spoke or moved in the dining-room. In silent horror they sat there, drumming’ nerv- ously with their fingers upon the cloth, hesitating to look at each other. Then Mrs. Grelthorpe rose. Every, one mechanically followed. In a dis- mal train they walked to the drawing- room. Almost without preliminaries Mrs. Challis and her husband stam- mered their adieus and went away. One by one the other guests departed in their wake. Lord Lastermere plunged manfully into a sprightly anecdote; it fell flat. He, too, wrapped in the gathering chill, rushed away in a panic. Less than half an hour after the fatal meal had come to a close David Grelthorpe and his wife stood, aban- doned by their company, facing each other. . “ David, what do you mean by—” With a sudden, masterful gesture he checked the torrent of fury rising to her lips. “Leave me alone!” he snapped with brutal roughness. ‘Leave me alone, confound you!” | THE ARGOSY. “Are you mad to—to— Why did you—”’ Again he flung up his hand. “ None of your business!” he thun- dered. And, turning abruptly on his heel, he strode out of the room. CHAPTER IV. THE THE DANSANT. IN a taxicab speeding along Fifth Avenue two men were seated beside each other in silence. One looked straight ahead of him, frowning and biting his lips with obvious vexation— David Greithorpe it was. ‘The other, a tall, fair-haired young man, wore a broad smile as he gazed with apparent interest at the procession of vehicles and pedestrians passing along the great thoroughfare. “Are you sure that you gave the chauffeur the right address? ” inquired the young man, as the traffic police- man waved that they might cross For- ty-Second Street. “Yes!” growled Grelthorpe. “How abrupt we are this beautiful afternoon,’ the youth rattled on. “ Surely, you will understand my anx- ious desire to avoid mistakes. If we were to miss attending the thé dansant at the Furbush Challises, to which you have so graciously bidden me ”’—here he smiled more than ever—* the con- sequences might be unpleasant. In fact, there’s no telling what the conse- quences might be. So let’s be sure that we are taken to the Challises and nowhere else.” : | He turned eyes alight with mis- chievous enjoyment on his companion, who merely growled out: “T told the chauffeur the right ad- dress.” The taxi hurried along, Grelthorpe scowling, the young man smiling and humming a happy little tune. Then the vehicle swerved eastward into a cross-street and became one of several which were edging their way toward a door on the north side of the street CORMMICLOOOKS (C@