Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 60: what you’re looking at

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

shook and stepped about with amazing cele ‘ity and verve. Garry and the check-room boy waited until the dance ended and the negroes came _ back for their encore. This time they sang instead of dancing, and Garry beckoned Mark to follow him to the balcony, where the man who managed the calcium lights was Stationed. There, in Silvers’s name, he confiscated one of the lamps, and while the electrician kept the negroes covered with one white spotlight, he switched the other upon the tables, turning it this way and that, so that Mark could see every one within its scope. The guests thought it was part of the pro- gram, and laughed and shielded their eyes, or tried to sit motionless and proudly un- heeding as the light struck them. And the negro performers were too old at their game to so much as look surprised. Accordingly Mark was able to study the various groups unobserved, and his survey was soon re- warded. “ That’s the woman—there—with the fan and the band of diamonds on her head,” he cried excitedly, pointing. Following with his glance the direction of Mark’s outstretched finger, Garry saw Joan Olcott. Leaning forward with a fixed, expectant, almost fascinated glitter in her eyes, she was intent upon the maneuvers of the ne- groes; something in her responding to the : wild savagery in their every move and tone. He thought of Salome. There was some- thing about her that reminded him of the evil, passionate, abandoned creature who had become enamored of the Baptist—and danced for his head. She was very pale~ almost ghastly white, with lips that were too full and too crim- son, Her mouth was cruel. Her eyes were too large and too intense. Her black hair, cut short, was so thick that it stood out crisply about her head, held in place from ‘crown to the forehead by a circlet of ynds. She wore a gown of orange-col- iffon, and had rubies in her ears. vivid—too brilliant—she looked as here across her table, with gaze ~ aa | f 4 ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. They returned to the supper room, from the doorway Garry sent Charlie to summon the woman. “Tell her a gentleman wants to speak to her about Guy da Costa,” he said. Charlie nodded. “Any new developments yet?” he asked. “Not yet,” answered Garry regretfully, Charlie started on his way through the tables; Garry dismissed Mark and Waited. - The other man who was waiting—Bartlett —-cowering behind his palms in the far cor- ner of the room, studied Garry thoughtful- ly. He had been observing the crowd closely—unceasingly—since his return to his table; and he had wondered about Gar- ry’s exits and entrances. Fiad the police been notified? Had they arrived? Did they find any clews? These questions tortured him. He would have liked to ask them, but this was mani- festly impossible. He was not supposed to know what had happened in that little French drawing-room upstairs. He must not even suspect there was anything wrong. Nobody else in those crowded rooms seemed to suspect. He must be as gay and careless and frivolous as they. But it was hard to do that—with the wound in his side still bleeding. He had tried various postures to strive to close the wound, but it was a vertical gash, which his sitting position kept open. If he could only lie down for a bit so that the edges would come together and permit the blood to congeal! But he could not lie down. He had to sit there—drinking his champagne—smoking his cigar—smiling— and watching, listening, waiting for the ap- proaching footsteps of the police. He had already placed a second napkin over the first, against the wound. The first was saturated. But the blood stain did not yet show above his waistcoat. Although the stain had spread, it had spread all the more slowly for his cleverness in placing the napkins there. . A waiter — his waiter — came by, eying him. He summoned a smile and ordered more champagne. From the Colemans’ table Katherine, too, watched Garry with anxious, hopeful comicbooks.com