Argosy, Vol. 118, No. 2 — page 160: what you’re looking at

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

310 THE cell died last night,” he said. He was much pleased by the casual note he got into’ his tone. “That so?” queried a man a few seats away from him. ‘‘ What was the matter with him?” “ Oh, old age, I guess,” replied Maxon. “He was past seventy—and I guess he hadn’t lived any too well.” “You knew him, didn’t you, Hugo?”’ asked another man. “Yes, I used to drop in on him once in a while—but I don’t think any one knew him very well,’ Maxon spoke evenly. ‘He was a queer old fellow, I guess,” the man observed. “Yes, he was—a queer old fellow.” And that’s all there was to it. It was very simple. It wasn’t likely that the thing would be mentioned again. Maxon was very glad it was over. After supper he lingered for a time with the other men— in the front room and on the porch. Fin- ally he started up-stairs. “The body’s down at Corbett’s under- taking rooms,” said a man, looking up from the evening paper. “ Let’s go down and take a look at it.” Maxon stopped in the doorway and turned slowly. He saw that the man’s re- mark had been addressed to the company in general. ‘“] don’t mind,” agreed one. ‘I’m too tired,’ added another. ‘““T never had any desire to view bodies,”’ said Maxon slowly. “I’m going to bed.” And he did. Despite the fact that there had been no hint in the newspaper story of the least suspicion in connection with Peter Mur- cell’s death, Hugo Maxon was decidedly uneasy—uneasier than he had ever had any idea he would be. Sitting in his room, alone, he tried to analyze this uneasiness. He knew he had no fear of arrest. There was no chance of suspicion—no one but himself knew the old man had money, and he had stumbled upon that fact merely by accident. There were no meddling relatives. There was no one > ARGOSY. And yet he was uneasy. Ah! he had it. He knew why he was uneasy. It was be- cause the face was yet above ground. It would be buried very soon now, and he need have no further worry about that. It might be buried to-morrow—-very soon, anyway. He must forget. He must drive it from his mind. He must sleep. He drummed that into his brain until he thought he had control of himself. Then he lay down. But the face remained with him. Even in his slumber, it was there—so that the sleep did not accomplish much toward quieting his tremulous nerves. He wasn’t bothered by a dread of the supernatural. There was no horror of his victim appear- ing before him in ghostly form. He was far too sensible to permit such things as that to disturb him. But the thing that did disturb him was that the face was yet above ground. He found himself wishing that he had not taken that final look in the hut. He remembered the sagging jaw and staring eyes. Of-course, the undertaker had fixed all that by this time. He knew the face was as gentle and as peaceful as a sleeping baby’s at that very moment—but yet se always would recall it as he had last seen it; and that was very disturbing. He found that out before morning. He dreaded to face his companions at breakfast and at the shop—but it had to be done. He was yet sufficiently in control of him- self to carry the thing off. His eyes burned, but no one except himself knew that. He steadied himself and carried on the table- talk satisfactorily. He saw one of the men reading the morning paper. He hoped he would not find something new about the old man and comment on it. He did not. Maxon got hold of the paper after break- fast. He could have screamed with joy over the thing he read. The story was a mere paragraph, with no hint of the least suspi- cion. The last sentence gave him a thril]— ‘The funeral will be held at two o’clock this afternoon at the chapel in the under- who might be too “ nosey ” and demand an ~ taking rooms, and burial will be in Green- investigation. -There was no reason why any one should think of such a thing. 9 point cemetery. Only a few hours more and the nae (e(0) .OO ANCE KS) CO)