The Argosy, September 1915 — page 54: what you’re looking at

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

268 bey, but an idler. You probably heard his uncle mention the fact that he was working in New York. Mr. Davidson forced him to. The straw that broke the camel’s back, it seems, was when Billy lost a big sum of money playing. bridge with Mr. Morton. ‘That dis- gusted his uncle.” “But didn’t Mr. Davidson feel any resentment against Mr. Morton for having won his. nephew’s money? ” asked Rosalind. “Apparently not,” said Mrs. With- erbee, knitting busily. “ You see, men are funny about those things. Mr. Davidson said if it hadn’t been Morton it would have been somebody else, and that it was all a fair gamble. _But he was furious at his nephew for losing. ‘And now he gets reports from the banking-firm every day, telling him how finely the boy is getting on. And that’s how, in a roundabout sort of way, we got Mr. Morton. Rather dis- tinguished-looking, isn’t he, dear?” Rosalind shrugged her shoulders and watched the tennis-player. “Of course he’s dreadfully Eng- lish,” added Mrs. Witherbee; “ but he can't help that. And his name — it’s Evelyn! Stephen thinks it’s the fun- niest thing he ever heard—H. Evelyn Morton. “But he likes him, just-the same. Everybody does. You will, my dear. Why, Rosalind, you can’t tell but he just might be the one who—’” “T think Pll go up-stairs and take a nap,’ said Rosalind hastily. “I have a slight headache.” ' CHAPTER IX, THE ASCENDING SCALE, R OSALIND did not have a head- ache, and she did not take a nap. Instead, when she had closed the door of her room she faced herself in the mirror. “You are becoming a great liar,” she said bluntly. With the fidelity of a movie, the THE ARGOSY. ‘“ image in the mirror returned the com- phment. “On second thought,” said Rosa- lind, “I withdraw that. You are not becoming a great liar—you are a great liar.’ The lips of the animated image as- sured her that the amendment was accepted. “ You have lied about little things, big things, foolish things, serious things — everything. I detest lying. It is cowardly, vulgar, and demoral- izing. Worse than that, it’s trouble- some. But ’—she _ sighed _softly— ‘ occasionally it is necessary.’ She turned abruptly away from the image, went to a writing-desk, and spent several minutes with a pen and a sheet of paper.. When she had re- viewed her composition with care, she folded it into small compass, slipped it into a vanity-box, and snapped the lid smartly. “ That’s just to make sure,” mured. later.” After that she sat passively by the window for fifteen minutes, appearing to watch the tennis-players, yet de- voting her complete attention to her thoughts. Smugeg gling, of course, was not so bad as burglary, she reflected. Lots of excellent people smuggled—not in a really vicious way, and not with the least hint of sinister intent; it was just a sort of sporting proposition. They did not smuggle for a living, or even for incidental profit; they were not pro- fessionals. She knew a lot of perfectly amiable, well-bred, and charming smugglers, who smuggled a trifle now and then for the excitement of beating the game. There was herself, for instance. But professional smuggling was dif- ferent, she told herself severely. And when it was coupled with burglary, it assumed a serious aspect. She would not permit herself to be lenient in this, Yet she was intensely curious. If Sam was a smuggler as well as she mur- ‘I suppose there will be more CORMMICLOOOKS (C@)