Argosy All-Story Weekly, August 9, 1924 — page 153: what you’re looking at

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

CHECKMATED BY CHANCE. gone home. Bronson knew that both Abner Dawson and the aged housekeeper were sound sleepers, and he had nothing to fear from that source, but nevertheless, he felt easier when he had negotitated the pantry window, and was noiselessly creeping up the stairs, to his uncle’s room. II. It didn’t take long! A mere matter of ten minutes or so, and Bronson was crouched in the hushed darkness of the great hall downstairs, fighting to regain his breath and his nerve, for the latter had been sorely tried within the last few minutes. God, what a ghastly business! And what a fight that old man had put up! Bronson shivered as he recalled those last grim moments of old Abner Dawson’s life. He had used an improvised sandbag, but that had not proved sufficient, and he had been forced to have recourse to his hands in order to finish the job. And old Abner Dawson had recognized him and had called out! That was when Bronson had used his hands! As he crouched in the blackness of the great hall, a feeling of nausea swept over him, as he remembered, with a sudden start, the awfully suggestive position the body had assumed after life was supposedly ex- tinct, and it had slid limply to the floor. With a great effort, he pulled himself to- gether and tried to get some measure of control over his shattered nerves. Great Scott, he mustn’t go on like this! He would give himself away to the first hick cop that should question him. But still, the awful suggestiveness of that limp form, kept recurring before his mind’s eye with the clarity of a moving picture. After old Abner Dawson had ceased to breathe—in fact, quite a while after—the right hand which had lain across a small hassock, straightened slowly, and then as he had stared horror struck, the finger had lifted grimly and had pointed directly at him as he had cowered in the gloom. And it had continued to point at him, for as long as he remained. Seme reflex action, no doubt but to Bron- son wiping the icy sweat of terror from his 303 forehead, it seemed the precursor of dis- aster. He shivered as he realized that up in that silent room the accusing dead finger was still pointing. But in spite of this, he had nerved himself to the grisly task of examining old Abner Dawson’s throat for tell-tale finger marks. He had found none —at least, not then—and this had gone far toward straightening him up, and quieting the panic that had threatened to engulf him. With an effort he pulled himself together. Crouching low and creeping with noiseless feet, he reached the pantry window, where, after a careful look around, he began the task of getting through it. This accom- plished to his satisfaction, he made his way across the lawn, recovered his suit case, crossed the road to the dark mass of trees opposite and a half hour later was striding up a small valley, at the head of which his uncle had maintained a small shooting lodge. That was the second part of his hastily constructed plan. In fact there was nothing else he could do. To go to New York now, was out of the question, due to the possi- bility of his meeting with some one who had seen him take the train, apparently for the city earlier in the evening. Now his only hope was to reach the lodge un- seen, and lie low for a couple of days; this would be easy, for very few people came this way in the summer. After that—vwell, and he shrugged his shoulders; his future actions must be determined by events! III. Two days later, Bronson, freshly shaved, and immaculately dressed, and carrying his suitcase, strode through the dusk, along the railroad track, toward the town he had left on the night of the murder. During his en- forced sojurn at the lodge he had been for- tunate, inasmuch as no one had been in the vicinity, and this fact cheered him some- what. Now, if he could carry out the rest of his plan, he thought, as he walked rapid- ly along, he would be on easy street for the rest of his life. This plan, formed during the long, weary hours at the lodge, was to secrete himself ECOMmiclooo S (C@) nn