The Argosy, Volume XLIV — page 190: what you’re looking at

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

THE ELIXIR OF LIFE. BY C. LANGTON CLARKE. The mystery of a strange disappearance, and the awful position of the man who chanced upon the solution of the problem. “FT OOW at it how you will, it is a most unaccountable disappear- ance. There is absolutely no clue. His accounts are in perfect shape—Jim Allerlee was always a most methodical person. Happy home—Mrs. Allerlee is one of the most charming women | know. An income more than enough to supply his wants. No entanglements —of that I am positive—and here Jim voes and disappears as if the earth had swallowed him. It beats me.” With these words Allan Mortimer dropped the end of his cigar into a convenient ash-tray, hoisted his long figure out of the depths of an easy- chair, and, with a glance at the clock, prepared to bid his host good-night. “You are giving yourself a lot of trouble over it.” “Tam determined to get to the bot- tom of it,” was Allan's reply. “ Jim was always a good friend of mine, and be- sides, my bump of inquisitiveness has always been abnormal. Well, I must not keep you up any longer, or IT shall be persona non grata with Mrs, Atkin- son. Good-night.” “ Good-night, and good luck in your quest,” answered the other. “ Let me know if you hear anything.” The two men passed out of the h- brary into the dimly lit hall. “T suppose,” suggested Atkinson, as he helped his guest into his overcoat, “that Allerlee was never mixed up with any secret society—Nihilists, you know —or anvthing of that sort?” “ Hardly,” langhed Allan. “ Jim was not at all the kind of man for daggers or bombs.” The other echoed the laugh. “Talking of bombs.” he said, “there is a bomb, or what Marv looks upon as a bomb, in this house, and I wish vou would take it away. You remember that can of powder vou lent me to fill some shells? JT have got if stowed away a in a cupboard, and every time my wife goes there to get anything she expects to be blown up. Wait a minute till I get it.” Atkinson ran up-stairs, and in a few minutes returned, bearing a good-sized tea canister, half filled with gunpowder. ‘Not too much trouble, I hope?” he remarked as he wrapped it up. “Not at all,” Allan replied conven- tionally. He detested carrying parcels, espe- cially on cold nights, but was too good natured to refuse. He shook hands with his host, tucked the parcel under his arm, and, with his hands thrust into the pockets of his ulster, set forth for a ~ half mile walk to his quarters. The hour was late, and, with the exception of an _ occasional solitary policeman, not a soul seemed to be abroad. The absolute silence of the streets began to have a depressing ef- fect on his spirits, and it was with a fecling of positive relief that, on turn- ing a corner, he descried a hundred yards ahead of him the figure of a small man, walking in the same direction. He quickened his pace, and had al- most reached the stranger’s side when he saw him slip and fall heavily on the sidewalk. ‘““T hope you are not hurt,’ Mortimer said, bending over the prostrate figure, which made no attempt to rise. Thank vou.” replied a low, musical voice, “I am rather badly shaken, and I fear that I have wrenched my ankle.” The stranger raised himself to a sit- ting posture, and looked up. Allan gave an involuntary start, as he gazed on the most remarkable face he had ever beheld. It was the faceof a manof about sixty years, of an extraordinary waxen pallor, covered with a close network of tiny wrinkles, and framed in long locks of vellowish-white hair. GORMIGOOO SS (COL