Argosy All-Story Weekly, Vol. 124, No. 2 — page 119: what you’re looking at

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

THE SICKLE OF FATE. her before the constable is summoned. You two are not to breathe a word of this until we are all questioned. I'll slip out the front way. But tell no one where I’ve gone.” Passing behind the group of men who were crowding in at the study door, he gained the front steps. By cutting diagonal- ly across the yard he could avoid another group of neighbors who were coming up the path. One woman was pushing a baby- carriage before her, and talking excitedly of something she had seen. She called out a question to him, but he hurried on pretend- ing not to hear her. He kept to his own side of the street, until he was opposite where the Winslows lived. Then he crossed over. No one an- swered his ring at the front door and he pulled the bell-handle a second time. After waiting a moment and hearing no sound, he walked around to the rear of the house. As he passed the kitchen window he thought he caught a glimpse of some one within, but again when he knocked, there was no answer. So he lifted the latch and pushed the door open. ~ Mrs. Winslow was standing there alone in the center of the kitchen. She was a large woman with pale eyes and colorless skin. She had not taken her bonnet off and she held a pair of shears in her hand. “I won’t have folks coming into my house so—not even the minister! I ex- pect them to wait, until I let them in!” Mr. Grant closed the door and leaned his shoulders against it. “Where is Flora?” he demanded. Her mouth set itself obstinately. “ You'll have to tell me, Mrs. Winslow. You'll have to answer every question that I ask. There’s no time now to explain.” ‘“ Flora’s up-stairs in her room.” “When did she come home?”’ “She ain’t been out.” He looked at her steadily. _ “When did Flora come back from the parsonage?”’ ‘“‘ She ain’t been down to the parsonage. Don’t you go tellin’ folks she has, for she ain’t been out of the house this afternoon.” For the first time since he entered he noticed that the air in the kitchen was stiflngly hot. He could hear the fire roar- 801 ing in the stove, and he could see that the damper was open. He took out his hand- kerchief and wiped his forehead helplessly. ‘ Perhaps Flora went out without telling you,” he suggested. ‘‘ She was in my study half an hour ago. Are you sure that she is up-stairs here now?” Mrs. Winslow stood her ground. ‘I was talking with her just before you come in,” she retorted. “ You can step through into the hall there and call to her if you want to. You'll find that she’ll answer If you do.” He hesitated a moment and then walked past her to the foot of the front stairs. There he paused. ‘ Flora!” he called. As he stood with his back to the kitchen door, he was beside a large steel engraving of “ The Feast of Belshazzar,” which hung on the wall. It reflected dimly like a mir- ror. As he looked into its depths, he saw Mrs. Winslow glide forward noiselessly. With one hand she raised a stove-lid, un- covering a glowing mass of flame, and with the other hand she caught up a bundle of something from a chair. He glanced around swiftly. She was intent upon her work, crowding into the fire long strips and rolls of light-blue silk. There was something familiar about the color, and suddenly he understood. which was being burned. _ “ Flora!” -he called sharply. A door opened up-stairs. “Who is it?” the girl’s voice. answered, choked: with tears. “It’s Mr. Grant, the minister. I’ve come up here to have a talk with you.” “ Flora wasn’t down to the parsonage!” her mother broke in vehemently. “ ’Twon’t do you any good askin’ us questions, for that’s all you'll ever get her or me to say.” She had followed him into the hall and had raised her voice so that it might be overheard up-stairs. The minister stepped to the front door, unbolted it, and flung it wide. ‘““ Look down the street there, Mrs. Win- slow!’”’ he commanded. “See the people gathering in my yard! A half-hour ago a couple came to the parsonage to be mar- ried—your daughter and Nathan Swain. conchae It was the wedding-dress _ SS (CO wo