Argosy All-Story Weekly, November 13, 1920 — page 14: what you’re looking at

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

292 ““T was about to say John Prendergast. They say he offered to make her Mrs. Three.” “What? That old—” ‘“‘ Middle-aged, I said. And a winner! Home on the avenue. Offices—”’ “Does it occur to you that she might be less commercial about the matter than you?” The nice gray eyes had hardened a bit. Under their scrutiny Truedale fumbled his words into silence. “We're a damned commercial lot!” he said after a pause. “Yes. And she may trail around with you, use your English slang, and even your cynicism at times. But, for all that, she’s different! Any fool could see it!”’ “Um-m-m! = Yes.” ‘“Mears Lawton—”’ mused Masters. “T’ve heard — name, but can’t remem- ber—” “The New York Lawtons. Owned a lot of the Bronx once, and sold it while New York was still several miles away. Such an old family that it’s been living on its past generations for a century or so. The doctor-lawyer-preacher type of people. Norine’s mother did up what little Mears left in giving his daughter an on-the-Hud- son education.” ‘‘ She’s not—penniless!”’ “More or less. It rather comes to ‘liv- ing on family prestige. Invitations, you know—from old friends and people with more money and less family than she. She seems. to have more lately. Some of Mears’s old investments turning out, I sup- pose. She said something to-night about an apartment of her own.’ There was silence while a six-foot waiter stopped by with a tray of glasses, destined for the den, and left two on the table. Ranfield Masters emptied his of its pre- cious liquid, set it down and spoxe again. “What does this Jerry Brent do?” he asked. “Do?” Truedale’s eyes blinked as he puffed another cloud -of smoke into the al- ready murky interior of the room. “ Why —stocks, I think. Not a broker, though! I know he’s the fellow that told Burnham about those copper stocks the other day.” ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. “Thought Burnham lost on. that.” ‘““He did. He was pretty sore at first. Started a story that Brent was a con-man of the fur-lined overcoat type.” . “Think it’s true?” “Not particularly.. Haven’t thought about it at all for a fact. I happened to hear Burnham working Brent for that tip.” Out in Betty Lennon’s big blue and sil- ver ballroom, with the music stealing over it from behind a screen of tropic palms and mingling sensuously with the heavy air, Norine was breaking her custom of silence while dancing. “This Mr. Masters,” she said to James Cordon, “ he’s very rich, isn’t he?” = Think so. Million from his father, I believe. And uncle almost as much.” ‘He is—in business?” “No. He hasn’t been out of the army long. College and travel before that. Quiet, dreamy chap. I believe his lawyer pretty well runs his business affairs,” ‘“Um-m-m! Something of a waster!” “Is every one a waster who doesn’t mix up with that grimy maw down there, Miss Lawton?” She shrugged. “‘ Those long-haired mod- ernists down at Greenwich Village say not. But Mr. Masters’s father wasn’t a modern- ist. Isn’t he the man that built up the family fortune when it was rather gone to seed a generation ago?”’ “The same.” ‘““T remember! Dad used to say that if Masters could win, he could. But poor dad never did!” “No?” questioned the elderly suitor quite as if he didn’t know the story of Mears Lawton from his first speculation through the few years of psuedo prosperity and then down the long period of declining fortune that had left his daughter penni- less. CHAPTER II. ** STRICTLY. BUSINESS.” ERRY BRENT indicated a small table J against the wall shaded by a rose-col- ored light. The head waiter led the way to it with an air of making way for Gomicbooks