The Argosy, Vol. 82 No. 2 — page 49: what you’re looking at

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

GETTING AWAY FROM THOMPSON. - - “Well, boss!”? breathed Mr. Cragg, as he obeyed. Whistling softly, Mr. Farnham dropped to his knees and entwined Mr. Cragg’s ankles with the deftest of loops; he squint- ed at it and pulled taut; he tried it with both hands and it seemed not to budge the fraction of an inch. Mr. Farnham, therefore, rose with the spare yards of rope and considered the rear axle of the car. “T think this will hold you nicely till we need you to drive again,” he said pleas- antly, when he had accomplished a new and even more intricate knot about the metal. He turned to Jane with a satisfied nod. “Our driver will be with us in the morn- ing,” he said softly. ‘“You’d better run along, dear, and try to get some sleep.” Cragg forgotten even as he lay there, the same deep glow in her eyes, his hostess looked at Farnham for a moment and then turned away quickly. Mr. Farnham gazed longingly after her as she crossed to the little tent; he sighed heavily and, lantern swinging, took a few irresolute steps from the captive, eyes on the ground. At the tent Jane paused and looked back once more. Wilbur Farnham, who must be mortally tired, was strolling on through the moonlight, wrapped in his own thoughts, toward the scene of his recent scuffle. Happier and at the same time more miserable than ever before in her life Jane watched him; he would vanish presently behind that bush and Jane would steal into the crowded tent and take her place again —not to sleep, but to lie there and think of the wonderful thing that had happened. She would plan a letter to Uncle Horace, to be mailed at their next stopping point, and to urge that gentleman to any and all means necessary to rid her of the Thomp- son blight. It was certain that she could never tell Wilbur that story; it was possible - that he might never know! Wilbur failed to vanish behind the bush. Instead, he stopped short, stooped and picked up something from the ground. It seemed to be a bit of paper, and he held it to the lantern. And then, with a dramatic violence rarely seen on the subdued modern stage, Mr. Farnham executed a perfectly genuine start! He gripped the paper and held it and the lantern nearer to his eyes. He seemed to reel for an instant. 231 Then, as Jane hurried forward eagerly to learn the nature of his find, he drew him- self up and started toward her. His shoul- ders seemed very square as he paused be- fore Jane and heard her: “What was it, Will? find?” Mr. Farnham extended the paper. ‘You needn’t have let me rave on,” said his strange, hoarse voice. ‘““You might have told me, Mrs. Thompson!” : And here Jane’s fingers touched the prof- fered thing and a scream rose to her lips and all but escaped to rouse the company— for upon the very instant she recognized the accursed sheet. Of all the billions of paper fragments in the world to float in here and be found by Wilbur Farnham, this one was the most hideously impossible! It chanced to be Jane’s marriage certifi- cate! What did you CHAPTER IX. THE CAR BEHIND. COMPLETELY numbed through several terrible seconds, Jane Fayre’s unhappy brain returned slowly to life and activity. The thing was there, because she had held it, and it had fluttered from her fin- gers and Farnham had picked it up and was offering it to her again. Where in the name of all sanity it had come from was quite beyond her. But the manner of its appearance was insignificant now. It had appeared and Wilbur Farnham had read it; and he was thrusting it at her and saying with a sad attempt at cool speech: “This is yours, Mrs. Thompson, and—” “Tt isn’t mine, and if you call me Mrs. Thompson again, (’Il—ll—” burst from Jane. Farnham smiled sadly. “T’m so sorry,” he said quietly. “Sorry that you are unhappily married and still sorrier if you really care anything about me, because that makes it rather harder for both of us.” “Wilbur!’”? Jane panted. “Tear up that horrible thing!” | “Tt is yours, is it not?” “Ves, but—” Instead of obeying Mr. Farnham only smiled more sadly and folded the “horrible thing.” CORMICGLOOKS (C@)