The Argosy, Christmas 1912 — page 146: what you’re looking at

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

132 settled his hat further down on his brow. Buttoning his coat, he stuffed his gun into his side-pocket. ‘“ Any- thing else?” he inquired of the re- porter. Lewis shrugged, turning aside. ‘The door will open,” he said wear- ily. ‘Go in. Walk up to the second floor, knock twice, and Pratt, my part- ner, will show you the man you want. That’s all.” His back was turned on the two. Next moment his pulses leaped. There was the sound of quick footsteps cross- ing the floor, the key turning in the lock, the door’s swift opening—and then its clattering bang back in the frame. Sweet music in his ears. He was alone— “Well,” said the fat man behind him, ‘‘ you might as well sit down while we're waitin’.” Lewis swung round, his jaw fallen, to stare at Pete, calmly bending over the key in the lock, which he turned once more, making the door secure after the departure of Brady—who had gone to look up the reporter's blind clue alone! The thought had never struck the reporter that this would happen. He had relied on a fever of avarice cloud- ing the minds of both his captors the minute they knew the supposed hiding- place of the man they were after. In a panic of eagerness to get to the ad- dress he had given, they ought to have dashed together from that room with- out a shadow of a suspicion that he could be getting rid of them by a ruse. But it was apparent that these two tough ward-heelers from the slums of St. Paul weren’t so easy as all that. It had not been premeditated, but in- stinctive with them to separate thus: one to investigate the genuineness of Lewis’s information, the other to ride herd on the reporter till it had been ascertained whether or not their pris- oner’s usefulness to them was ex- hausted. “How long,” asked the fat man good-humoredly, returning from at- THE ARGOSY. tending to the safe bolting of the door to reseat himself opposite Lewis— “how long d’ye figger it'll take Brady to make Lake Street and back? ” Lewis swallowed on the rising lump in his throat. How long, indeed, be- fore the man would return to disclose the fact of the reporter’s subterfuge? Suppose, inquiring of the first person he met outside, the way to the number and street Lewis had given him, the fellow should discover immediately that he had been hoodwinked? It was not beyond the range of probability that this might happen. And, in that event, he might come back at any mo- ment; might, even now, be returning with enough red fire to supply a whole election campaign smoldering in each eye— What would they do to him, these desperate rascals, when they learned how he had victimized them—ttied to pull the wool over their eyes? He was trapped. His bluff was cer- tain to be called. And the consequences —well, they weren’t likely to be pleas- ant, no matter what form they took; that was also a cinch. “Say,” remarked his stout compan- ion at that moment, “ there’s one thing about you. It takes you longer to make up your mind about answerin’ a straight question than any guy I ever see or heard of before. Maybe you’re a little deef. I asked you just now— how long d’ye figger Brady’ll be in gettin’ back?” | Suddenly Lewis decided on his course. “I—look here!” he stammered. “You—the fact of the matter is, your friend Brady is likely to be back here in next to no time!” The fat man did not appear sur- prised. “So?” he commented. Street ain’t far off, then?” “Tt’s about a half-hour’s ride on the car,’ the reporter grimly answered. Pete looked at him sharply. “'What’s the game?” he wanted to know. There was no lack of interest “ Lake CoOMmicbook CO