Argosy, Vol. 122, No. 1 — page 32: what you’re looking at

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

22 either side of the broad stone fireplace. Comfortable wicker chairs invited her, by a long table evidently used by Fraser-Carnie for his work. Book-shelves occupied the corner around the table. A convenient window-seat par- tially curtained off with green baize con- tained various boxes and letter files. Alto- gether, it was a likable room; lacking, however, a woman’s refining touch. Edith listened to the beat of rain on the roof, and pondered, chin on hand, the meeting with Monsey. He had been as good as his word. She wendered what position he held in Srinagar, and what Rawul Singh thought of him. If it had been possible, she would have liked to ask the orderly. During her meditation she had been turn- ing over the books on the table. Now she glanced at the window-seat and stretched forth a tentative hand. One of the boxes— open—held an unusual assortment of things. Some stained clothing met her eye, also a tarnished telescope. A volume of poetry projected from one corner. On the clothing was pinned a slip of paper. Edith could not help seeing the words written thereon. It was nothing out of the commonplace. ‘John Donovan’s belongings,” she re- peated. The patter of rain was dwindling. With- out the bungalow, the sky was clearing and light filtered freshly through the drawn blinds. Edith was still alone in the room. She glanced gratefully at the snapping fire in the hearth, that relieved the chill of the bungalow. By nowethe glow of the lamp was dwarfed by daylight. The girl rose to go out upon the veranda. Then she gave a soft cry of surprise. THE ARGOSY. On the veranda she saw that the storm had broken. But a sea of mist was tinged a fiery blood color by the setting sun. Waves and billows of the crimson surf seemed moving toward the girl. It was as if the breath of purgatory had been blown across the glittering green val- ley of Srinagar, set like a jewel in the circlet of the swelling mountain peaks. Ceaselessly, the red sea twisted upon itself, veiling the outlines of trees and plain. Above it the slate green of the hills rose to the snow summits which glittered red in the sunset. On the street, somewhat down-hill from the bungalow, the erect figure of Rawul Singh strode into view out of the clouds of mist. She noticed how tightly his overcoat was buttoned, how exactly the miniature cap of the cavalry regiment sat on the side of his head. He walked with the grave alertness and the well-drilled air of the native treoper. A few yards behind him a burly figure had become visible. Edith recognized with more than a little surprise the scarred na- tive of Baramula. He was striding alone, head bent on his chest, hands tucked into the wide sleeves of his khalat. But when Rawul Singh ascended the lawn to the bungalow and lifted his hand in a precise salute at sight of the handsome young mem-sahib, the native was no longer to be seen. There was nothing unusual in the inci- dent. Edith, however, could not help won- dering how the man of Baramulla had reached Srinagar so quickly, and why he was walking after Rawul Singh, and espe- cially why he had chosen to turn back into the crimson curtain of mist when the or- derly reached thé house. CTo be tontinued NEXT WEEK.) Complete in every sense “A SEA OTTER POCKET” BY RAYMOND S. SPEARS JUNE 26 ee eee oO eee — 7 cComiclbooks.com