The Argosy — page 308: what you’re looking at

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

Michael’s Mistake. 283 liant with light; going on together up the staircase of an old, ram- bling house. There Fabian Lestréve falls into a reverie before his bed-room fire; the flames flickering brightly up towards him, so that one can see the thin sprinkling of grey through hair and moustache, and even trace the adventurous course of a wrinkle here and there. Michael is in his room ; half-smiling to himself as he goes over in thought again a hundred and one of Uncle Fabian’s vagaries. Sud- denly hurried footsteps cross the room overhead, and a voice he knows well calls his name hastily. ‘€ Michael !” He goes up the stairs at a bound, and pushes the door open. * Yes, Uncle Fabian?” “Michael!” He says no more; he stands as a man in a dream; just the one word, and waves his hand to the floor, The quick brown eyes of his nephew follow the hand witha glance. Lying side by side there in the firelight, are three great, sturdy portmanteaus. For one instant Michael St. Martin: stands aghast; then he falls back on the bed, and bursts into a fit of laughter, stirring up echoes in the old gallery. Fabian Lestréve finds his voice then. “Michael! are you mad? Inall the world what—what does this mean ?” “Oh, Uncle Fabian—you don’t—you don’t mean to say they’re not yours ?” The little man’s grey eyes fairly stand out of his head. “Mine! mine, Michael! I declare I don’t know what you mean. I’m sure I don’t know what ¢AZey mean. Look at the brass bands; look at the locks. Which is mine? There’s the question. Perhaps you can tell me where you got ¢/ese from, Michael St. Martin.” “Got what—got which, Uncle Fabian?” Fabian drew in his breath, eyeing his nephew narrowly. ‘* Now, look here, Michael. I put one portmanteau into the van.” ** And I brought out three—yes ? ” Fabian Lestréve sat down abruptly. “ Michael ! is this a trick—or a miracle—or what?” “Oh, Uncle Fabian,” he bent his head on the mantelpiece : ‘‘ Just give me time to breathe, will you? I am so awfully sorry! It’s all my mistake,” said Michael. Meantime the train flies on. The train flies quickly, almost as quickly as thought; only that thought hurries hither and thither to and fro at will, and the train pants its course nervously along one hard iron beaten track—there is no other path open to it. So uncle Fabian’s train whirled on. It had passed through many villages, and had stopped at other cities ; it had gone between high rock, and dashed fearlessly, with its human freight, in the darkness, over wild yawning precipices; it had skirted tempestuous sweeping rivers; and once the white spray of the ocean itself, had sprinkled (EMAL aexe) (E©@) m