The Argosy — page 77: what you’re looking at

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

64 Number Twenty-five. ‘““Of course—we hope so,” he answered, turning sharply away into the hotel. The bright weather held out, and I conscientiously made the most of it—spending another day out of doors and returning at dusk. I stole to my room on tip-toe. All was silent in No. 25, but ina few minutes I saw the curtain over the door drawn aside and the maid’s face look out. I kept carefully out of her sight within my half-open — door. I don’t know why, except that her eyes were so ugly to meet. She came out at last and hurried away rapidly. I wanted a light and some dinner, and prepared to follow her, when I heard a queer noise in the passage like a knocking with a muffled hammer. Beat! Beat! Beat! It was in No. 25. Ihurried out. Someone was beating the door panels with the palm of the hand, and a voice—Mrs. Loseby’s, grown weak and shaky—was crying inside: “Oh, who is there? Help me! Let meout! Let me out!” I saw the key was in the lock of the door, but hesitated to interfere. The frantic beating re-ccommenced. ‘‘Is anyone there? Help me! Let.me out.” “Tt is I—Paul Sherratt—Mrs. Loseby. What do you want?” I asked—as anyone would have done. “Let me out. Take me away before they kill me!” ‘Here is your maid,” I said hastily, for I saw the curtains move at the corridor end. She was silent directly, and I stepped back into my room. ‘The maid was carrying a lamp in front of her, so could see nothing beyond it. I waited till I heard her enter and lock herself in, and then went down. Loseby was dining. I took a seat near him. He looked paler than ever: his eyes were red and the crooked lines about their corners more strongly accentuated. He didn’t seem to get on with his dinner, which on the whole showed proper feeling. Poor fellow—why didn’t I pity him? His whole air was that of a man devoured by anxiety and eager for sympathy. Directly I spoke of his wife, he broke out with the story of all his woes and perplexities. How could he leave her in the hands of these benighted country practitioners; and yet at the very name of a London physician she had become so alarmed about herself that she had fallen into the very state of nervous agitation 1t was most desirable to avoid. If he had only any lady friend at hand to consult. He had implored his sister to come, but she couldn’t leave her invalid father. I let him run on, listening and sympathizing with one half my brain, while the other was deep in pondering over a question of chirognomy, z.é., whether the lines of the hand can be modified by long- continued effort—as resolute persistence in an expression eventually modifies those of the face. All that I most objected to in Loseby’s face disappeared as he spoke with sad earnestness, but the ominous curve of those cruel, clutching fingers remained unchanged. He departed early that night, to take his share of the watching, and when I passed the veiled door of No. 25, all was quiet. Gomicbooksnco