Avon Murder Mystery Monthly No. 41 — page 21: what you’re looking at

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

A. MERRITT 23 the road upon us like a torrent, engulfing us, submerging, drowning. Unseen it was—yet tangible as water; it sapped the life from every nerve. Weariness filled me, a desire to drop upon the stones, to be rolled away. To die. I felt Drake’s body quivering even as mine; knew that he was drawing upon every reserve of strength. “Steady,” he muttered. “Steady—” The Tibetan shrieked and fled, the ponies scrambling after him. Dim- ly I remembered that mine carried precious specimens; a surge of anger passed, beating back the anguish. I heard a sob from Chiu-Ming, saw him drop. Drake stopped, drew him to his feet. We placed him between us, thrust each an arm through his own. Then, like swimmers, heads bent, we pushed on, buffeting that inexplicable invisible flood. As the path rose, its force lessened, my vitality grew, and the terrible desire to yield and be swept away waned. Now we had reached the foot of the cyclopean stairs, now we were half up them—and now as we struggled out upon the ledge on which the watching fortress stood, the clutching stream shoaled swiftly, the shoal became safe, dry land and the cheated, unseen maelstrom swirled harmlessly beneath us. We stood erect, gasping for breath, again like swimmers who have fought their utmost and barely, so barely, won. There was an almost inperceptible movement at the side of the ruined portal, Out darted a girl. A rifle dropped from her hands, Straight she sped toward me. And as she ran I recognized her. Ruth Ventnor! The flying figure reached me, threw soft arms around my neck, was weeping in relieved gladness on my shoulder. “Ruth!” I cried. “What on earth are you doing here?” “Walter!” she sobbed. “Walter Goodwin—Oh, thank God!. Thank God!” She drew herself from my arms, catching her breath; laughed shakily. T took swift stock of her. Save for the fear upon her, she was the same Ruth I had known three years before; wide, deep blue eyes that were now all seriousness, now sparkling wells of mischief; petite, rounded and tender; the fairest skin; an impudent little nose; shining clusters of intractable curls; all human, sparkling and sweet. Drake coughed, insinuatingly. I introduced him. “I—I watched you struggling through that dreadful pit.” She shud- dered. “I could not see who you were, did not know whether friend or enemy-—but oh, my heart almost died in pity for you, Walter,” she breathed. “What can it be—there?”’ ECOMC OOO (GO)