The Argosy — page 80: what you’re looking at

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

Number Twenty-five. 67 profitably employed: nevertheless, day and night my mind would wander to that unfortunate lady, wondering what had become of her. Some power seemed to be urging me to go back to Losthaven to see —or hear: and there were odd moments when I thought it would prevail. May and June came and went with their sunshine and gaiety and dust, and July followed hot and steaming. ‘¢T want you to take a holiday with me,” said a certain amiable, poetic-souled artist-friend of mine, Oscar Schmidt by name, one Friday morning. “I want you to come to-morrow with me to Losthaven.” “¢ Losthaven ! ” I exclaimed. ‘‘ Why? ” “To see her: My love.”—(He said “loaf,” but I knew what he meant.) Oscar was in the habit of making his remarks as curt and impressive as possible. The love was Pauline Archdale. She and her people were staying at the hotel at Losthaven. I told Schmidt I would be ready. We were gieat friends, he and I. I entered Losthaven this time in blazing sunlight, in a crowded omnibus; Schmidt opposite in gorgeous apparel with a glowing esthetic neck-tie and tight yellow kid gloves. The Imperial was adding a wing to itself, half the size of the original building. My old bed-room had been knocked into a passage, and I was put into No. 252, up in the roof. Oscar, who had been in a sort of stolid flutter all the way from the station, dragged me out forthwith in search of his love, whom we found under the care of a severe mamma on the lawn; half a dozen London aquaintances of theirs and of mine, surrounding them. We all dined together. My mind was full of Oscar and his hopes when we ascended the well-known staircase that night. He held me by the arm, pouring confidences into my sympathizing ear as I turned mechanically with him down the corridor which once led to my room—and I can con- scientiously avow that no thought of my old experiences crossed my mind for an instant. He came to a sudden stop. “‘ Ah! what am I about ? Myroom is _ a floor nearer heaven than this.” We both laughed, but quietly, as it was discreditably late, and silence and slumber reigned around us. We turned to go back, but stopped again as by one impuise. Hark! What was that ?” I felt my breath catch as I heard distinctly the soft beating of a palm on the panels of the closed door on my left hand. It was No. 25. **Someone called you, Paul,” said Schmidt, his eyes wide with astonishment. ‘‘ But who?” } We listened again. Nothing. We stood some few minutes without speaking or moving. Still nothing. Schmidt laughed, shrugged his shoulders and moved on; I followed more slowly. As we turned from the corridor on to the staircase landing, I heard it again. Beat. Beat. Beat. I ran softly back: it grew louder. The door was shaker GOnlGaooks (CO)