Argosy All-Story Weekly, October 25, 1924 — page 134: what you’re looking at

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

124 He turned to the hag. “Conduct this man,” he said, “ and have a care that there are no tricks. I come from a country where old witches are hung up by the thumbs. D’you hear?” She shrank from him, but still sneering, and so took Dunbar from the room. The interval Clovelly spent in pacing to and fro, turning hastily at the end of each beat back and forth that he might not be forced to face the girl. She had grown more terrible than a regi- ment of soldiers to him, and yet she was doing no more than following him with her eyes, back and forth, back and forth through the room. He strove with all his might not to see her, but he could not help but notice, now and again, the glis- tening of her eyes and the pale glimmer of the hands which were folded in her lap. Why did not Dunbar return? For every instant with this suspense continued was putting the greater weight upon him. Once he paused just before her and cried: She half raised from her chair. There was a broken and a panting tenderness in her voice. “Yes?” said me eagerly. chael?” Instead of continuing, he turned sharply about and resumed his pacing. But he was trembling from head to foot; there was such a hunger in his arms to take her body in his arms; there was such a hunger in his heart to be possessed of her soul; there was such a mad, sweet knowledge in his blood that if he so much as stopped frown- ing she would weep with delight—that all of these things stopped his breath and made his heart riot. Yet, Dunbar did not return. He ‘stamped his feet and shouted: “Hallo! Hallo! Who’s there? Dun- bar!” The long echoes boomed softly through the house, whispered, died and whispered again, but the honest roar of Dunbar did not reply. Only the crone came again to the doorway. “Old she-devil,” said Clovelly, “ where is my man? What have you dene with him?” 7 “Yes, Mi- ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. “TI took him to the court, fair my mas- ter.” “What kept him there?” “The wine, I doubt not. There is good drinking there—” “T’ll be at the bottom of this foolery. If you are right, Dunbar shall sweat for this. Come, Cecily!” The crone led the way. He cautioned the girl as they went on: “Stay close behind me. If there is dan- ger, press close.” Then the old woman opened a door and bowed them through. Clovelly found him- self looking into a sort of Spanish patio— more of a garden that a court, and with a stretch of smoothly shaven turf in the cen- ter of the plot. There were a half dozen strong lights hanging under the eaves, and these made a bright illumination. He saw no men at first, but as he stepped through the doorway he was seized upon either side. It was useless to struggle. Upon each hand one man held his arm, and farther back stood assistants with leveled weapons. A tall man with a pointed beard and long mustache was approaching across the court. “ Hold fast, my friends!” he command- ed. “Take the girl—” Clovelly struggled so suddenly and des- perately that he half freed himself. “Touch the lady,” he said, “and I'll find a way of cutting your hearts out!” “Let her be, then,” the tall man or- dered. “ She shall look on, for this will-be worth observing.” He came before the captive. “You, sir,” he said, “are that famous man, Michael Clovelly?” “IT may be Michael Clovelly,” said the Jatter, “though not ‘that famous man.’ And you, whatever you may be, must know that the owner of this house is no common man. You will wish that you had entered , hell sooner than invaded his property.” The other waved his hand, so lightly dismissing such thoughts of unpleasantness to come. “IT may be known to you,” he suggested proudly. “TI am Pierre Lascelle!” “ Lascelle? Lascelle?” muttered Clovelly. “T have heard that name. Ah—Darnac— by my life, it is the same! One Pierre Las- Gomichbooks (C@