The Argosy, April 1916 — page 37: what you’re looking at

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

A MYSTERY OF ROSCOE CONKLING PARK. The next day he did not go to the Ray- monds’. He slept late, having spent the evening at a theatre and over a supper afterward with a few members of the Academy class to which he and Greenland had belonged. After a leisurely breakfast he went to the surrogate’s office. His title to the farm on West Canada Creek was established, and with the title deed and all important papers in his pocket he renewed the insur- ance on the buildings, looked up the taxes, etc. He wandered about the lower part of the city till dinner-time and as evening fell darkly he returned to his hotel. “Call for you—Mr. Raymond’s—some- thing wrong,” said the clerk. Yale sped to the telephone. It was Nancy’s trembling voice that answered. “Oh, Mr. Yale—that you, Mr. Yale— this is Nance Raymond— Come up here right away—right away—-something terri- ble has happened to Beverly. We think she has drowned herself in the old Third Street reservoir near Roscoe Conkling Park. Oh, come quick! This house must be cursed!”’ Those in the lobby stared as a streak of man went through the door. CHAPTER XIV. YALE TAKES HOLD. [F the evening before Yale had left the Raymond house in a state of turmoil and collapse, there is scarcely a word ade- quately to describe the condition in which he found it now. Sims, as usual, admitted him. But it was hardly the same Sims. He jerked the door open and stood staring at Yale with a face expressive of nothing. ‘“‘What’s the matter here? What’s this about Miss Wayne being drowned? Have they found her body?” demanded Yale, and Sims leaped backward, fearing the visitor would clutch his throat with his strong white hands that nervously gave evidence of his powerful agitation. “N-no, sir,” stammered Sims. ‘‘HHas she been found alive, then?” ““N-no, sir.” “Where is she? Speak, man!” “T_T d-d-don’t know, sir,” stuttered the terrified butler. ‘‘Everything gone to Hades here, sir.” : ‘“‘Where is Miss Raymond?” 27 “Tl, sir, in bed, and can’t be seen, sir.” ‘“‘Where is Mr. Raymond?” ‘“‘Had another heart spell, sir; is in bed, doped.” ‘Where is George Greenland?” “Somewhere, sir, looking.”’ ‘My God! Do you want to drive me mad? Where is Mrs. Raymond?” ‘In her room, sir. Perhaps she will see you.” “Well, by the jumping Joss, somebody will see me! Go tell Mrs. Raymond I am here.”’ : Sims sped away as though the idea was a new one to him. That a man in -Yale’s position, holding his peculiar relationship to Beverly Wayne, should want to see somebody after receiving a message to the effect that Beverly had been drowned in Utica’s drinking water, was beyond Sims’s stupefied intellect to grasp. Yale paced up and down the hall, cursing the fates.. The possibilities of the case were too horrible ,ta permit him to remain calm. In that moment he realized fully that he loved Beverly Wayne. Sims came back more composed. ““Mrs. Raymond is better, sir, and will see you at ence. Do you know where her boudoir is? Shall I—” But Yale had sped past him and was half-way up-stairs. Mrs. Raymond sat in a large arm-chair, wrapped in a fur cloak, although the steam heat was on. She was in a huddled posi- tion, rocking to and fro. She saw Yale enter without moving her head. “Isn’t this a terrible thing to happen to our house, Mr. Yale?” she moaned. “Your house!” Yale felt small sym- pathy for the Raymond family just then. “Your house! What has happened to Bev- erly Wayne?” ‘‘Who knows? Perhaps she has defeated justice. Perhaps—” “Mrs. Raymond,” broke in Yale, thor- oughly beside himself with anxiety, “I did not come here to listen to hysterical con- jectures, and whatever has happened to your house has not been brought on by me. Miss Raymond telephoned me that Miss Wayne was probably drowned in the Third Street reservoir. Never mind your perhaps. What do you know?” “Only that,” said the exhausted woman, pointing to something on the floor. Yale picked it up. It was a wrecked camera. MICLOOOK C@