Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 16, 1921 — page 112: what you’re looking at

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

THE TEMPTING TANGLE. But, perforce, she. had to complete the: introduction. Cassilis nodded to the waiter. “We were ‘just discussing Tom Fagg,” said Ruth, by way of explanation. ** Did Mr. Cassilis remember him at all?” Glory Adair was all interest in a moment. “ “Vou see, Mr. Cassilis,” explained Ruth, “we are both interested in this Mr. Fagg,.. my friend and I.” Somehow she could net bring herself to say “ Miss Ferintosh.” But Cassilis himself was plainly embar- rassed. “T’m sorry to have brought you this far for almost nothing,” he said. ‘“‘ When I read that advertisement, by the merest chance, I felt I’d never met the man. Yet there was something vaguely reminiscent in the name. For a while, though, I was hard put to place him. Did you know him?” he challenged, his eyes on Ruth. Ruth shook her head. “ T never met the man,” said Glery Adair truthfully. *“ For a while,” went on Cassilis, “I could not * remember where he came in. Yet I couldn’t get rid of the idea that I'd seen the name somewhere. I could see myself as a boy, standing in the road, reading it in big letters on some sort of sign-board— then I placed it, right enough.” Miss Adair nodded encouragingly. She was taking the-lead; for which Ruth was eminently grateful. : “ Twenty-five years ago,” said Cassilis. “In this part of Canada—on a big, cov- ered wagon.” “A gipsy van?” flashed Miss Adair. Cassilis’s dark face flushed. He gaxed at Ruth Ferintosh—the real Ruth Ferin- tosh. “As a matter of fact,” he said bravely, “7 was doing the gipsying. I was a very. small boy then, and my father and mother went about the country with a caravan, They were what you’d call gipsies, I sup- pose — English gipsies, originally from Holmbury, I believe. We did some petty trading, and told fortunes, and, as there was a lot of oil-well drilling in the Petrolia country just then, my mother posed as a clairvoyant and located wells. Oh, I am 108 not apologizing,” he added stiffly. “ At least, Miss Adair ’’—and he fixed his eyes ion embarrassed Ruth—“ I’m trying to be honest about these things when really I don’t have to be.” Ruth Ferintosh cut in swiftly, before Glory Adair could speak. “T see nothing—wrong in any of that,” she flashed impetuously. ‘ And if it were wrong, would the fault be yours?” The man’s dark eyes thanked her for her impetuous defense. Glory Adair frowned. “So,” pursued Cassilis, “we drifted down to a little place called Bothwell, when oil was struck there. It was when we were camped close to a road through the bush, southwest of Bothwell, I think, that I saw Tom Fagg and his wagon go by. The name was painted on the wooden sides in big let- . ters—like this.” He drew an envelope from his pocket, and with a pencil—after a moment’s hesita- tion—traced the letters: TOM FAGG PHOTOGrAPHER “IT remember,” he interpolated, “ that the one “r” did not seam just what it should be. I was a youngster, but my mother had taught me a great deal. She was a well-educated woman.” He was on the defensive again; somehow, with these women opposite him at table, he seemed instinctively called upon to defend these facts he refused to hide. Ruth Ferintosh saw that Glory Adair was puzzled. “ That ‘r,’ you see,” added Cassilis with a smile, ‘“ was what a printer would call “wrong font.’ Well, I don’t know who made the first move or gave the first hail; but the next thing I remember, the photograph car was halted at the roadside, the horse nibbling the rank grass, and. Tom Fagg ly- ing on his back close to our caravan, smok- ing, and talking to my father and mother. “We had our wagon in the woods, but close to the road, and it seems to me he leaned against a tree—but perhaps that was later. Anyway, he dropped his pipe by and by, and gave my mother some mon- ey, and held out his hands, and she told his fortune. My father had handed down CORMICLOO© S (©