The Argosy, Christmas 1912 — page 134: what you’re looking at

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

120 was what he was going up against. Already he could imagine himself un- dergoing the ordeal: ‘Where is the man you killed?” He would answer—the truth: ‘“T have killed no one!” Biff! “Where is the body? ” “T don’t know!” Biff! Biff! ‘Where is it?” Biff—and so on, till he dropped. For he would be denied even the left- handed alternative open to a victim of this sweating-out process who was really guilty—the ‘confession of the crime. He had no crime to confess. Pretending to break down, and giv- ing the first place that came into his head as the whereabouts of that miss- ing body, would not bring him a per- manent release from his predicainent. At once his information would be proved false; and then he would be right back where he started, probably, with redoubled vigor to pay him for lying. Oh, it was a pretty net that he was being drawn into, Lewis told himself as the elevator stopped, and he was led out and across the lobby of the build- ing to the street. A fine-meshed snare, indeed. | Along Nicollet Avenue, filled with the home-going crowds of clerks and salespeople, the reporter was borne by his two guards, the three jostled on every side by passers-by, but still keep- ing together. Nobody paid them any especial at- tention. Whether Lewis was being mis- taken for an invalid in charge of two friends he did not know; for he was not troubling himself to notice how his ap- pearance was received any longer—he had ceased to care about that. Guiding him off the main thorough- fare just then, his escorts, probably fearing some attempt might be made to interfere with their safe delivery of such an important prisoner, turned with him up a narrow alley that branched off the main avenue. THE ARGOSY. This, as Lewis knew, was a short cut to the nearest station-house. Walking along with his eyes fixed straight before him, his jaw grimly set, it was some seconds before he noticed that he and his guards were not alone in that cramped and dim side street— that there were two men walking close beside them, one on either side of the two officers between whom the reporter was being propelled ahead. Why, one of these men, Lewis made out as he peered through the dusk— unless he was mistaken—that was the chap in the elevator with him back at the Meteor, who had carelessly turned aside his eyes when the reporter glanced at him on entering the car. Now he turned to stare past the Scotland Yard sleuth on his right at the other— It was the fat man, the stout, rather poorly dressed party who had eyed Lewis back there in the elevator with such a compassionate light on his sim- ple moon face. The reporter recog- nized his presence here with a scowl. One of those kind-hearted busy- bodies, likely as not, this plump per- son had not been able to get over the thought of Lewis being so ill that he had to have two men take him home. He had followed the reporter out of the elevator, therefore, with this other man, who might be his friend. And now he was going to stop them and find out just how badly off Lewis was. Of course, that would reveal the fact that he wasn’t ill, but a prisoner going to jail. And if the fat man felt com- miseration for the reporter in the for- mer plight, what would he be likely to do when he discovered the real state of affairs? | It was a hundred-to-one shot that he would have a crowd around them in no time. And thus to add any trifling touch of ignominy that might be lacking from Lewis’s predicament—to give his present dilemma further zest, as it were —he could look forward to completing his journey to thé station-house at the head of a large and delighted mob. At that moment his arms were almost CoOMmicbook CO