The Argosy, Volume XLIV — page 298: what you’re looking at

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

294 “His name, in full?’ he inquired. “You know as much as I do—‘ De Soria, or something of the sort.” “ ‘That’s the divvle of a note!” he ex- claimed irritably, scratching his head. ‘“ Now, what are we to do—invent a name? I hardly lke that. ‘ Tuberculo- sis” is all right, because it’s the truth —if not all of it. But the name ? “How about that black bag of his, Tom? Would we be justified, do vou think, in opening it? We might get our information there.” “JT don’t know. Private papers, you know ” “ But under the circumstances such a course might be justifiable. And that reminds me. I found a little locket around the old gentleman’s neck which I thought might interest you.” He handed the thing to me—a con- ventional, heart shaped bit of jewelry, hinged at the top, but most beautifully engraved. The most peculiar thing about it struck me as I turned it over in my hand, wondering if I ought to open it. On a little shield stood out the words: ANITA DE Soria, Aitat. 16. Mv curiosity thus excited, IT opened it without further scruples. Within was an exquisite Jittle minia- ture of the most beautiful face I have ever seen, the face of a girl with dark eyes that seemed to smile into mine a promise for the future. The portrait was that of my wife, Anita Suarez. “Now, what do vou make of that?” said I in amazement. “ It’s too deep for me,” Stringer con- fessed. “Come on, let’s look into that hag.” The old Spaniard still oceupied my bed. Stringer had covered him de- cently with a shect: IT gathered from a word or two which he let fall that the expression on the Sefior de Soria’s face was not the most pleasant thing in the world to look upon. “IT faney,” Stringer remarked casu- ally, “that he didn’t much like the per- son who did the strangling. Not that it would be unnatural. of eourse—-—" THE ARGOSY. y “No,” I agreed, as I swung back the wainscoting and twirled the combina- tion on my safe. Sonichow, I had an uneasy feeling, as if I were robbing the old man while he watched me; if he had suddenly spoken up, protesting, I don’t think I’d have been overly surprised. Nothing preternatural came to pass, however; Stringer and I secured the mysterious satchel, shut the safe again, and tiptoed out of the room like a pair of despicable sneak thieves. I think that if a fellow has been brought up the right way he has a sort of innate distaste for prying into other men’s affairs, even if they do hap- pen to be dead and uninterested—so far as we can tell. We took the bag down to thé dining- room, and there, on the table, I opened it. It contained three bundles of papers, a small red morocco-leather book, a business-like Colt’s .44, and a small roll of bills—three or four hundred dollars or so. We didn’t even trouble to count it: the papers were what we wanted. And, perversely, they were all in Spanish— all of them except the little red book, which was filled from cover to cover with small—indeed, microscopic— handwriting, beautifully clear and in excellent French. Now, I understand French, and thus it seemed that we were in a way, per- haps, to get some light in on the dark tangle in which the Sefor de Soria had involved us. But no—not sefior must T call him hereafter. For upon the red_ book's cover were the words: PRIVATE JOURNAL, which was repeated on the fly leaf, with the additional information that owner was one “ Henriques Maria, Duque de Soria, Prince de Montebian- cla.” Stringer whistled long and low while I read this aloud. “The deuce!” he cried. “The duque! ” I corrected, somewhat irreverently. “The business is more serious than T had hoped for,” he commented. “ The GORMGIOO CO