Argosy All-Story Weekly, May 17, 1924 — page 139: what you’re looking at

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

A STRANGER IN TOWN. “ ‘'No-o-0-0,” said Portia slowly as one out of what was beginnin’ to look like a who weighs the consequences of an answer. Blumefeldt laughed — actually laughed. “Then the best thing, considering the fact that your being brought here was a mis- take, and that you haven’t been injured, is for you both to forget where you’ve been and what you’ve heard.” As he spoke he held his eyes steadily on Miss Elton, and it seemed to Eddie that the lid of the one turned away from Murgson and Welter drooped slightly of intentional purpose—as though, most unbelievably, Blumefeldt winked. He wondered if Por- tia had seen it, and turned his own eyes toward her to find an expression of deep consideration on her face. Yes, Portia was considering Blumefeldt’s suggestion if he was any judge—was weigh- ing what was no more than a suggestion that they should agree to keep silence—to buy their liberty by what would amount to the compounding of a felony at least. And she was a lawyer, she must appreciate all the man’s words meant. But she was con- sidering his proposition none the less. And she was speaking. “Very well. The message merely said Mr. Harmon was arrested again, and asked me to come to him. My roommate need never be the wiser.” And Murgson was staring, a look of re- lief on his florid face, and Welter was grin- ning in a sneering sort of fashion. Eddie experienced a feeling of acute relief himself, not unmixed with a subtle disappointment. Of course Portia was a woman, and he couldn’t blame her for getting herself out of the predicament in which her asso- ciation in his troubles had placed her, but— : “Good,” Blumefeldt accepted. “ Murg- son said you were a lawyer, and I see you can look on both sides of a case. We seem to all be in about the same sort of fix if you'll notice.. This whole deal has come down to a matter of sauve que peut—which means save yourself if you can, in French. I’m glad you’re exhibiting sense.” “Darned if you ain’t right,” Murgson exclaimed. “It’s got to be every feller for himself in this business, all right, Blume- feldt. That’s it. You’ve found th’ way 9A 289 pickle for us.” “ Well,” Blumefeldt returned, “in a way I was partly to blame. I didn’t mean to get Harmon this far into it when I used him this afternoon, and I never dreamed of your bein’ fools enough to drag in a woman.” “But we was goin’ on the theory that they’d know where to find you,” Murgson said, his expression one of heavy chagrin. He broke off as the door opened and two Chinamen entered the room. He gestured toward the bed. The two orientals approached. Each took one of the two people toward whom they had been di- rected by an arm. Eddie and Mildred rose. It was clear that these men had come to escort them to the other room until the transaction be- tween Blumefeldt and the other men’s backer was completed. The Chinamen led them through the door into a dimly lighted hallway, its floor boards covered with a worn linoleum, and along it and up a flight of stairs to the door of another room. They unlocked it and thrust them inside and locked it again. In its general details the room was like the one they had quitted. Mildred sank into a ‘chair and sat staring straight before her. Eddie sank into another and took his head in his hands. What a night—what a night. The ‘thought kept repeating itself over and over in his brain. Arrest, jail, freedom, the budding of love, unconsciousness, captivity and seeming peril, threats of torture and now prisoners, they two, led here, locked in by yellow hands. It was all unbeliev- ably weird, like some wildly fantastic story. Almost without intent he uttered a sound half between a curse and a groan. Mildred stirred. ‘‘ Hadn’t you best lie down, Mr. Harmon?” she suggested. Eddie shook his head and winced. “ No thanks.” But her interest roused him. “Miss Elton—Portia—can you ever for- give me for getting you into all this trou- ble?” She smiled in a rather forced fashion. “There isn’t anything to forgive. You couldn’t help it—and I’m not forgetting your desperate effort to defend me, Mr. COmiclboooks (C@