Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 221 - The League of Death

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THE LEAGUE OF DEATH
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. MAN OF MURDER.
? CHAPTER II. DEED OF DEATH.
? CHAPTER III. OPPORTUNITY KNOCKS AGAIN.
? CHAPTER IV. CRIME UNEXPLAINED.
? CHAPTER V. SKELETONS RATTLE.
? CHAPTER VI. AT STONY LODGE.
? CHAPTER VII. WAYS IN THE DARK.
? CHAPTER VIII. TOO MANY COOKS.
? CHAPTER IX. THE PAST TRAIL.
? CHAPTER X. VANISHED EVIDENCE.
? CHAPTER XI. UNCLE ROSWELL DECIDES.
? CHAPTER XII. THE UNFORGOTTEN MAN.
? CHAPTER XIII. THE HAPPY ISLE.
? CHAPTER XIV. THE FAMILY PARTY.
? CHAPTER XV. MURDER TO COME.
? CHAPTER XVI. The NEW CHOICE.
? CHAPTER XVII. STRANGE FLIGHT.
? CHAPTER XVIII. SCENES OF STRIFE.
? CHAPTER XIX. THE SHROUD OF SILENCE.
? CHAPTER XX. THE LAW OF DEATH.
CHAPTER I. MAN OF MURDER.
THE big limousine stopped near the corner of the avenue; its chauffeur leaned toward the back seat and
gave a sideways nudge with his thumb. The young man who was riding as a passenger followed the
direction of the chauffeur's gesture and saw an electric sign, two blocks away, that said: "Hotel
Grantham."
"All right, Bradwood," spoke the young man. "This is where I get out. No use wishing me luck. I'll have
it."
Bradwood's poker-faced expression did not change. His eyes simply studied the passenger intently, to
make sure that the words were meant. It didn't take the chauffeur long to decide. He could tell, by the
hard, ugly smile on the young man's lips that Terry Lorven meant business.
Stepping from the big car, Terry took his suitcase along. He strode off in the direction of the Grantham
without looking back at the limousine.
Bradwood's gimlet eyes were busily checking on passers-by, observing that none of them had noticed
the alighting passenger. Sliding the limousine into gear, the chauffeur pulled away along the side street, his
poker face unchanged.
To Bradwood, the delivery of Terry Lorven was a matter of routine. To Terry Lorven, it marked the real
beginning of an enterprise to which he was fully steeled, despite the evil that it represented.
Seen in the light, Terry's smile was a leer. It expressed his contempt, not only for New York, but all that
the city represented.
Months ago, Terry Lorven had come to Manhattan to seek opportunity that would bring fortune. He'd
heard of people who came to New York with a nickel and built it up into millions. As his contribution
toward a success story, Terry had arrived with a few hundred dollars, and squandered his cash down to
the last thin dime.
But he had found his opportunity. You could meet the right people in New York. The right people for
you, even though the world might deem otherwise. Terry Lorven had met the right people, according to
his own estimate. He'd left New York at their suggestion, and during his absence, he had learned a lot.
Terry had learned that if you did what certain people wanted, they would offer plenty for such service. If
the thing they wanted happened to be murder, the profits would be quicker, and larger. Already a
murderer at heart, Terry Lorven intended to become one in fact.
During those two blocks to the Hotel Grantham, the prospective murderer felt his confidence increase.
People who passed him didn't shy off when they saw him. Why should they? They had their own idea of
killers: ill-dressed hoodlums, who rode around in rakish cars and came jumping out with guns. Terry
Lorven didn't belong to that type.
When he rode into town, he came in a stylish limousine. When he walked along the street, he let people
see that he was dressed well. When he entered a swanky hotel like the Grantham, he did so in the
accepted fashion.
Terry demonstrated the final point as he strolled into the hotel lobby. He beckoned to a bellboy and
handed over his expensive suitcase. He approached the desk, signed his name on a registration card;
then, turning it so the clerk could read it, he remarked in brisk tone:
"You have a reservation for me."
"Yes, Mr. Lorven." The clerk was very courteous. "You asked for a room with a western exposure, on
one of the lower floors. We have given you Room 818--"
Noting Terry's frown, the clerk paused, then added, apologetically:
"You see, Mr. Lorven, the west side of the hotel adjoins an office building. There are no rooms with
western exposure below the eighth floor. If you would prefer something else--"
"The room will do," interposed Terry. "I felt that the west side would be quieter, away from the avenue.
The eighth floor is low enough."
Low enough.
Terry Lorven chuckled when he stood alone in Room 818, his bag perched on a luggage rack beside the
window. Looking out, Terry saw the adjoining building that the clerk had mentioned. It was a squatty old
office building, its roof only a dozen feet below the level of Terry's window.
There was a trapdoor in the roof, and its top was tilted slightly ajar, very invitingly, in Jerry's opinion. A
drop from the window, a short jog across the roof, and he could go right down into the office building,
which was closed for the night.
The roof itself was quite dark, enough so to hide Terry's departure, since he was wearing a blue-serge
suit. But that was to come later. There were other matters to consider, for the present.
Turning to the door of his room, Terry opened it and glanced along the corridor. Seeing no one, he stole
out and went to a door well along the hall, but on the other side. Terry gave a cautious knock--two long
taps and a short one.
The door was promptly opened, and he stepped into an unlighted entry, where a young man awaited him.
Before Terry could speak, he felt a firm grip on his arm.
"Everything is set," the young man whispered. "Look through there. You'll see the window to the
courtyard."
Terry looked through the inner door. He saw the window, very dimly, and made out the figure of another
man against the window itself.
"Suppose I take a look--"
"There isn't enough time," spoke the young man, interrupting Terry. "Our uncle just called us. He says that
Dreeland is due any minute. You do your part, and leave the rest to us."
A bit annoyed, Terry started to push past. By then, the man from the window had arrived. His whisper
was as earnest as the other's, and he emphasized it by thrusting an envelope into Terry's hand.
"Here's the dope sheet, Terry," he said. "Get back to your room and read it. Get rid of it, because if you
dropped it anywhere, it would be too bad."
"Don't worry," assured Terry. "I'll burn it. Your uncle mentioned that point."
As he spoke, Terry was peering into the unlighted room. It was a large room, and Terry saw that it
contained some trunks, which formed blocky masses in the gloom. He heard the nephews whispering
between themselves.
"You gave it the weight test?"
"Yes. Eighteen hundred pounds."
"Three times what we need!"
"Which makes it triple sure for Terry. We don't want him to bother about anything but the dope sheet."
By then, they were urging Terry to the outer door. He heard them whispering something about a
telephone call that would serve as signal, and Terry gave a grunt of understanding.
One nephew opened the door, looked along the corridor, and beckoned. The other nudged Terry
through, and started him toward 818. As he reached his own room. Terry heard the other door closing.
IN 818, Terry read the contents of the envelope by match flame. With a pleased chuckle, he set fire to
the sheet of paper, burned it to the last corner, and flicked the ashes from the window, watching them
disintegrate as they descended.
Stooping to his suitcase, Terry opened it and drew out a coat that was inside. Removing his own coat, he
put on the other.
Even in the slight glow from the transom, Terry's new coat could be seen in the mirror that he faced. It
was a very fancy coat, scarlet in color, adorned with glittery brass buttons. It was part of a uniform,
exactly like the coats worn by the bellboys in the Hotel Grantham. Trousers were not needed with it, for
those that the bellboys wore were blue, almost the same color as Terry's own.
Placing his own coat over the foot of the bed, Terry reached into the suitcase again and brought out
another object that glittered. Its shine was silvery, for it was a stubby revolver, of .38 caliber. There
wasn't room for it in the tight-fitting bellhop's coat, but it slipped easily into Terry's hip pocket. Pulling
down the coat in back, Terry hid the gun quite completely.
Then, impatient rather than disturbed, Terry went to the door. Opening it, he walked boldly along the
corridor with what he considered to be a bellboy's swagger. It was a good imitation of what he had
observed in the lobby, and he paused at the door of the room across the way, thinking that the nephews
might appreciate a view of him on dress parade.
About to knock, Terry decided otherwise. Remembering that time was short, he strode back to 818.
He was just in time.
The telephone bell began to ring as Terry was closing the door. He didn't hurry to answer it; instead, be
waited, counting the steady rings. Finally, Terry lifted the receiver, poised it a few inches above the hook,
then lowered it. There was a short wait; the telephone began to ring again.
Once more, Terry Lorven applied the lifting process. This time, the lowering of the receiver did not
produce another ring.
Turning about, Terry reached the door of the room; going out, he left it unlocked, with the key dangling
on the inside. As he strode along the corridor, he turned his leering face toward the door across the way.
Terry Lorven hoped that one of the nephews might be peering through the door crack, to tell the other
that he had seen Terry pass, and to mention the expression that the imitation bellboy had displayed. For,
in that leer, Terry had put all the hardness that he felt, silently proclaiming himself to be a man of murder.
What lay ahead offered no qualms for Terry Lorven. He was fully sold on the purpose that he had
avowed. Death meant nothing to this man of murder, provided that his own life did not lie at stake.
Only one thing could have smothered his urge toward crime, and it was something that Terry did not
suspect. His picture of two waiting men in the room across the way was wrong.
Except for the bulky trunks, the room was empty.
CHAPTER II. DEED OF DEATH.
THE lobby of the Hotel Grantham was astir, as it always was, when James Dreeland arrived. A big,
imposing man, with the air of a feudal baron, James Dreeland looked as if he owned the Hotel Grantham,
which he did.
Some people might have considered the Hotel Grantham an important thing to own, but not James
Dreeland. The Grantham was but one of a dozen hotels in the chain that belonged to Dreeland, and very
soon he would be rating the Grantham as a Class B property.
Back from a tour of the country, Dreeland had been acquiring hotels right and left, some in part, others in
entirety. The prices had been high, but they were worth it, for Dreeland had ambitions to become
America's No. 1 hotel magnate, and his resources were sufficient to back up his effort.
From employer down to assistant porter, the employees of the Grantham were trying to impress
Dreeland. They did everything except lay a carpet for his entrance, because all had hopes of promotion
when the hotel chain expanded.
But Dreeland, in his pompous style, scarcely noticed the employees, except to count them. To his
secretary, who followed at his elbow, Dreeland confided:
"This hotel is overstaffed. Make a note of it, Jefferson. Estimate twenty percent."
In formal fashion, Dreeland signed a registration card, as Terry had, but the clerk did not need to ask if
he had a reservation. Dreeland did not reserve rooms at the Grantham; he kept them. His particular place
of residence was a double suite on the top floor, the twelfth, and though the rooms were excellent,
Dreeland did not appreciate them.
He wished that the Grantham had thirty-six floors, instead of twelve, in which case, it would prove
profitable. As it stood, the Grantham was nothing more than an advertisement for Dreeland Hotels,
Incorporated, because it was in New York and had a name.
As for the staff, after he had clipped it down, Dreeland intended to let the rest stay just where they were.
But by this time, Dreeland had forgotten the hirelings who were so anxious to impress him.
"Another thing, Jefferson," he said to the secretary, "call the Cobalt Club and find out if Mr. Cranston has
left there. He may not have received the telegram that we sent from the train."
"Very well, sir."
Hurrying to find the telephones, Jefferson went in the wrong direction. Around a corner from the desk, he
ran into the house phones by mistake. Two young men were at one of the house phones, one making a
call, with the other standing by. The man at the telephone was speaking in an annoyed tone.
"No, no, operator," he said. "If the room does not answer, there is no use calling it again... You think
there was an answer?... Ridiculous! You have tried twice--" With that, the young man slammed down the
receiver and stalked out, his companion following. They looked very much alike, and could have been
mistaken for brothers, rather than cousins, but Jefferson was too concerned over his own mistake about
the telephones, to think about the two young men who had so recently left a courtyard room on the eighth
floor.
Finding the outside telephones, Jefferson called the Cobalt Club and learned that Mr. Cranston had just
left. Hurrying back to join Dreeland, he was just in time to catch one of the three elevators that were
taking Dreeland's luggage up to the twelfth floor. The hotel magnate had gone ahead in another car,
accompanied by the manager.
There were two bellboys in Jefferson's elevator, and when it stopped for a "tip" signal at the eighth floor,
another man in uniform entered it. The two bellboys stared at the arrival in puzzled style, but made no
comment. They hadn't seen Terry Lorven when he entered the Grantham as a guest, and they simply
supposed that he was a new man, hired to make an additional showing on the occasion of Dreeland's
visit to New York.
WHEN the elevator reached the twelfth floor, Terry was promptly lost in a flood of bellboys who were
moving in and out of Dreeland's suite like the members of an anthill.
Dreeland had plenty of luggage for all, and none were losing the opportunity to carry it. But by the time
that Jefferson entered the suite, the manager was gesturing for the uniformed tribe to get out.
"We are glad that you have returned, Mr. Dreeland," said the manager. "I might remind you that the
rooms facing the courtyard are more quiet."
He stepped to a window of the big living room. Opening it, the manager gestured out into the darkness.
"More quiet," he repeated, "and there are no lights to annoy you. We find that many guests prefer the
rooms in the court."
Dreeland gave an annoyed nod and swung to Jefferson, who had just attracted his notice.
"Well, Jefferson? Was Mr. Cranston at the club?"
"He'd left, sir," replied the secretary. "I suppose that he is on his way here."
"You suppose!" stormed Dreeland. "I hire you to find out things, Jefferson, not to suppose them! Call the
Cobalt Club again"--he gestured to a telephone--"and find out if they know where Cranston went."
A buzz sounded as Jefferson picked up the telephone. Puzzled, the secretary was staring at the
instrument, when the hotel manager turned to answer the door, from which the sound really came. Then,
his hand on the knob, the manager turned questioningly to Dreeland.
"Open the door," ordered Dreeland. "It may be Cranston."
The manager didn't open the door. He was staring past Dreeland, and the hotel owner, noting the
manager s horrified stare, turned in the same direction, as did Jefferson.
A man had stepped from another room of the suite; at first sight, he appeared to be a bellboy, for he was
wearing a red uniform jacket. But the manager did not identify him as one of the regular employees;
furthermore, his manner marked him as a person of a different ilk.
The entrant was Terry Lorven. In his hand he clenched the stubby revolver, and the murderous leer on
his face told that he was here to kill. Terry's gun was raised, its muzzle trained straight for Dreeland's
heart, as the astonished hotel magnate turned to face the assassin.
There wasn't time for Dreeland to turn his gasp into a plea. Coldly, deliberately, Terry tugged the gun
trigger. With each spurt of the muzzle, he caught the gun's recoil and jabbed again for Dreeland's heart.
His ribs smashed by the impact of three .38 slugs, Dreeland went floundering forward, a lifeless hulk.
It was murder, of the most brutal sort, in the presence of three witnesses. Of three, because, with the first
shot, the hotel manager had tightened his hand convulsively upon the doorknob, to give it an involuntary
twist. At the second shot, the door was sweeping inward, sending the manager ahead of it. As the third
shot jabbed, a tall man in evening clothes was springing into the room, in time to see Dreeland's sprawl.
He was Lamont Cranston, the expected visitor. He wasn't frozen, like the two witnesses who had been
standing in the room. The sound of the first report had brought Cranston into rapid action; determination
was engraved upon his hawkish features as he lunged for Lorven, the killer.
WITH a snarl, Terry aimed his gun at Cranston, ready to add the challenger as a victim; but the
newcomer was swifter than the murderer.
No longer was Cranston empty-handed. In passing Jefferson, he snatched the telephone from the
secretary's trembling hands. He was flinging it as Terry swung to aim. With the telephone arching for his
head, the killer dived as he fired.
Terry's shots went wide. Not so the telephone. Cranston had taken full account of the killer's shift, and
by rights, the missile should have reached Terry's skull.
Unfortunately, the cord wasn't long enough, so the telephone jerked short. But Cranston was following
the throw with a long dive and a sudden cut-in, that kept him clear of Terry's hasty fire.
Flinging the empty gun at Cranston's head, Terry ducked through the doorway to the other room.
Slamming the door, he flung his weight against it from the other side just as Cranston hit the barrier.
The door didn't have a key, but the killer had previously arranged to block it. As Cranston twisted the
knob, there was a thump from the other side. The knob tightened, proving that Terry had rammed a chair
back under the doorknob.
Such a barricade would ordinarily have sufficed long enough for a fugitive to be on his way. But Terry
hadn't estimated on the strength that lay beneath Cranston's lithe shoulders. The door was strong enough
to resist attack, and the combined efforts of three men could hardly have dislodged the chair, since heavy
pressure would only have jammed it tighter. But there was system behind Cranston's shoulder-thrust.
Driving low, he struck the door squarely, just above the knob. The impact carried through like a
well-delivered stroke from a sledge hammer. The chair couldn't stand the brunt; there was a clatter as it
shattered.
Flinging the door ahead of him, Cranston came through with a long, low sweep, gathering up a rung of
the broken chair to serve him as a cudgel.
By then, Terry had reached a window to the courtyard. The window was open, for the killer had raised it
when he first was in the room. Though the room was dark, Cranston could see him by the light from the
opened doorway.
If the murderer intended to swing from the window and try to escape along a ledge, his plan was
hopeless, considering the promptness of Cranston's pursuit. But Terry Lorven had a different intention.
Without an instant's hesitation, he flung himself sideward through the window, like an acrobat arching
from a trapeze. He was gone, outward, downward into the courtyard's darkness before Cranston could
reach the window sill.
As he went, Terry threw back a high, gleeful laugh, as though he enjoyed this spectacular way of eluding
a captor, and cared not for the consequences.
The raucous glee still sounded as Cranston reached the window. Then, from the very echoes that were
ringing through the courtyard, came the most startling of changes. The killer's laugh had turned into a
shriek, so fervent and fearful, that only recognition of a sure and terrible fate could have produced it.
It was a trailing wail, the agonized cry of a man betrayed, that lost none of its horror as it dwindled to the
depths. The thing that ended it was the frightful impact of the murderer's body as Terry Lorven struck the
courtyard, a dozen floors below. But even the rising echoes of the smash could not erase the death shriek
that had preceded it.
Lamont Cranston was alone at the window, staring downward, trying to make out the blur that now
represented the crushed body of Terry Lorven, the willful murderer who had terminated his brief career
of crime with a suicidal plunge.
Back at the doorway of the inner room stood Jefferson and the hotel manager, both trembling, as though
they had caught the quiver of Lorven's death shriek. Though they couldn't reason why, the doom of the
murderer had horrified them more than the death of Dreeland, the victim.
From the fixed lips of Lamont Cranston came a low, grim laugh, a mirthless whisper, that the others did
not hear. In all his long experience with death and the things it represented, Cranston had never
encountered a contrast such as this, wherein triumph, as voiced by Terry Lorven, had turned to such a
bitter outcry of despair.
It was a strange case, this murder and the suicide that followed it, to so impress a witness such as
Cranston. For this man who called himself Lamont Cranston was none other than The Shadow,
champion among all who battled against crime!
CHAPTER III. OPPORTUNITY KNOCKS AGAIN.
MANY blocks from the Hotel Grantham, a taxicab stopped in front of an old, but presentable,
apartment house. A girl stepped from the cab, paid the driver, and looked up toward lighted windows on
the third floor.
The windows were open, and from them the girl could hear music from a radio, which someone had
tuned to its highest pitch.
She was a very determined girl, and determination added to her beauty.
Her eyes were dark, like her hair, but they had a sparkle. The thrust that she gave to her chin simply
added to its mold, and caused it to match the attractive contours of her nose and lips. Her swift stride
through the doorway of the apartment house revealed the trimness of a figure that deserved the very
fashionable attire in which its owner was clad.
Taking the automatic elevator, the girl went up to the third floor, found the door of the apartment from
which the music came and gave an imperious rap. She had to tighten her hand and knock until her
knuckles hurt, before the door finally opened.
When it did, the girl showed indignation as she strode into the apartment, to face a young man in shirt
sleeves who was swaying slightly as he closed the door.
The young man was handsome. He was light-haired, blue-eyed, and his lips wore a friendly smile. But his
tone had a tinge of mockery as he spoke to the girl.
"Miss Arlingame, I presume," he said. "Miss Muriel Arlingame, who likes to bother people. Allow
me"--he made a bow that nearly took him off his feet--"allow me to introduce myself. I am Stephen
Osden, the world's worst reprobate!"
"That's enough, Steve," said Muriel, tersely. "Sit down. I want to talk to you."
She snapped off the radio, and Steve promptly blundered forward to turn it on again. The music had
lessened, so Muriel let the radio play, partly to humor Steve and partly because it was his apartment.
With a look of dejection, Steve plucked a bottle from beside the radio.
"It's empty," he apologized. "So sorry I can't offer you a drink. I'm sorry, and I'm frank. If I had the cash
to buy another bottle--"
He silenced as Muriel pushed him to a chair. Looking at the girl, Steve moved his head from side to side,
as though he mistook her for twins. When Muriel finally dissolved into one person, Steve spoke in a tone
of self-reproach.
"I guess I'll never get straightened out," he declared. "Every time I think of the tough breaks I've had, I
want a drink. Every time I take a drink, I want another--"
"And then you forget your promises," Muriel inserted. "If you wouldn't forget, Steve, that's all I'd ever
ask."
The girl's dark eyes were very nearly tearful. If ever a man could register remorse, Steve Osden showed
it. Muriel's arrival had sobered him, very suddenly and thoroughly.
"I know I promised to see your uncle," Steve admitted. "I started to his office this afternoon, just as I
promised. But on the way, I decided I'd rather stand on my own feet."
"Try to stand on them now," suggested Muriel.
Steve made an effort to rise, then shook his head. The music was coming softly, and the room was
beginning to swirl. He laid his head back against the chair.
"I can't," Steve admitted. "You're right, Muriel, and I'm wrong. But when it came to asking your uncle to
give me some help--"
"You won't have to ask him," snapped Muriel. "I asked him for you. Can't you understand that Uncle
Roswell is interested in helping people like you, by giving them opportunities that they can't find for
themselves?"
Steve nodded slowly.
"Tomorrow," he said, "I'll go to see your uncle. I promise, Muriel. I know I promised you before, and
probably tomorrow I won't want to keep my promise. But you can make me do it. I'll stay right here until
you call me."
MURIEL'S eyes became solemn. She was debating Steve's problem with herself, when the telephone
bell began to ring. Steve reached from his chair, but couldn't make it. With a wary smile, he requested:
"Answer it, will you, Muriel?"
The girl picked up the telephone and said, "Hello." With a grin, Steve repeated the word, "Hello," then
stared as he saw Muriel's eyes light.
"Who is it?" demanded Steve, suddenly.
"Only my cousin Jack," replied Muriel. "He probably knew that I'd come here to find out why you hadn't
gone to see Uncle Roswell." She turned to the telephone and spoke: "Yes, Jack... You say that
Thaddeus wants to talk to me? Very well. Put him on the wire--"
"What about Gordon?" queried Steve, tilting his head. "Where's Gordon? You've got a cousin named
Gordon, haven't you?"
Before Muriel could reply, the radio interrupted. It had changed from music to a news broadcast. It was
coming in very loud.
"Police are confronted by a new murder mystery," spoke the announcer. "Only an hour ago, they were
summoned to the Hotel Grantham to investigate the death of James Dreeland, owner of a chain of hotels
which includes the Grantham. According to eyewitnesses, among them Lamont Cranston, prominent
clubman, Dreeland was slain in cold blood by a young man named Terry Lorven. Before Lorven could
be captured, he--"
By then, Muriel had laid the telephone aside and stepped across to the radio. She pressed the switch,
cutting off the broadcast. Steve eyed Muriel, rather puzzled.
"Why did you do that?" he asked. "Because Thaddeus could not hear me," the girl replied. "He said the
radio was making too much noise. Maybe he heard you first, Steve. In any case, I intend to talk to my
cousin Thaddeus without being interrupted further."
Steve shrugged and settled back into his chair. Muriel, after inquiring if Thaddeus could hear her, began
to explain why Steve hadn't come to her uncle's office that afternoon. She stated that she could guarantee
Steve's appearance there the next day, but Thaddeus wasn't satisfied. After some more conversation,
Muriel turned to Steve.
"Once and for all, Steve," she queried. "Will you talk to Uncle Roswell?"
"Of course!" returned Steve. "Any time you say."
"Tonight?" demanded Muriel. "Right away? Uncle Roswell is at home, and is willing to see you."
"All right," Steve declared. "Why not? The sooner I see him, the sooner it's over with."
Muriel relayed the news to Thaddeus. Finishing the call, she insisted that Steve put on his coat and vest,
before calling upon Uncle Roswell.
When Steve complied, even to the extent of adding a hat to his regalia, Muriel piloted him out to the
elevator and down to the street, where they were lucky enough to see an approaching cab, which the girl
hailed.
After leaning from the open cab window for ten minutes, Steve felt much better. The cab stopped in front
of a brownstone house on a side street. While Steve was fumbling in his pockets, wondering why he
didn't have the money that he had spent for his last bottle, Muriel paid the driver.
Steve steadied as she piloted him up the stone steps, where a servant in uniform admitted them and took
them to a little parlor. Seated, Steve was staring at the curtained doorway, when Roswell Arlingame
appeared there.
AT first sight, Steve liked Muriel's uncle. He expected Roswell Arlingame to be dignified, which he was,
but not in the manner Steve anticipated.
Instead of being austere, Muriel's uncle wore a smile, which seemed as genuine as it was friendly. His
face was round, topped by graying hair that followed the same curve. But his eyes, instead of being dark
and meditative, like Muriel's, were very light and twinkling.
With one hand Uncle Roswell clapped Steve on the back, and with the other offered him a cigar, which
Steve accepted. Soon, they were smoking and chatting like old friends, while Muriel, almost in the
background, was smiling as she listened. Almost of its own accord, the conversation turned to Steve
himself.
"So you think that the world deserves my sympathy," spoke Arlingame, in an easy tone, "and because of
that, you ask no sympathy for yourself."
"That about sizes it up, Mr. Arlingame," returned Steve. "I'll take whatever comes along and make the
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