CHAPTER IX—Continued
—11—
“If,” I went on, “you’ll let me
keep my amateur standing. I’ll be
very glad to escort your niece.
Otherwise, as I told you. I’m busy.”
“ ‘Pride goeth before destruc
tion,’ ” Miss Agatha informed me.
“Why don't you finish it?” I asked.
“ ‘And a haughty spirit before a
fall.’ ”
She stared at me for a long mo
ment. Then she nodded.
"Yes,” she told me, “I suppose
you’re right. Will you be here at
eight, David?”
“With pleasure,” I said and, gath
ering up my copy, went back to the
workroom.
If Lyon had not opened the door
of his apartment as I left Miss Aga
tha’s, I should have forgotten him
entirely.
“Hello,” said he. “I’d just about
given you up and was on my way out
for a paper. Come in.”
His flat was bright with lights but
it had a feeling of emptiness. He
explained as he took my hat and
coat that lone and Everett had gone
for a walk.
“He’s a lazy dog,” Lyon said eas
ily; “takes no exercise, whatever,
and of course when there’s a strain,
it simply pulls him all apart. Here
we are.”
He had led me into the living
room and pointed to the trophy
above the mantelpiece. I admired it
and with an effort kept from looking
behind the couch where the black
bearded body had lain.
Lyon ran through his collection
with the engaging pride of a child,
taking down sabers, claymores, ra
piers, thrusting them upon me to
swing and balance while he chat
ted of their history and where and
how he acquired them. It was pleas
ant to see a middle-aged man so
openly gleeful.
"Here,” he said at last, his leath
ery face glowing, "are my best be
loveds,” and opened a long rose
wood box.
From chamois casing, he drew
one forth, an epee de combat, and
handed it to me tenderly. It was a
beautiful weapon, a little longer than
the French dueling sword—a full
yard I judged from the etched steel
shell of the guard to the button of
waxed thread that blunted the point,
yet sweetly balanced and easy to
my hand.
"Like it?” Lyon asked artlessly.
“Very much,” I told him. "It
would be a joy to use.”
He looked wistfully about the
room. '
"I don’t suppose,” he mused, "that
we could. I say! Let’s shove the
sofa aside and try. Oh come,” he
urged as I hesitated. “Here are
masks”—he lifted them from the
wall—"and we shan’t need gloves.
Indulge an old man whose fencing
days are over, Mallory. Just for a
minute or so. It will be all I can
stand, I assure you.”
He had stripped off his jacket as
he talked. His enthusiasm and the
pleading of the sword in my hand
impelled me to follow him. We
thrust the sofa against the wall, put
on our masks, and faced each other.
“En garde,” he cried in an odd
voice. His blade darted for my
throat. Instinct alone prompted my
parry. He caught my thrust on his
guard and the shell uttered a high
clear note. His riposte grazed my
atm. The fury of his attack startled
me. I shifted so that light fell upon
his weapon. The button that made
mine harmless was missing from his.
The blunt, nail-head point had bro
ken off. The new steel of the frac
ture was a flickering spark before
me.
I cried a warning and lowered
my blade. Lyon Ferriter laughed
harshly and lunged.
CHAPTER X
Body, not mind, saved me. The
reflex centers that keep half-forgot
ten training helped my sword to en
gage and delay his. I leaped back
ward barely in time and he had me
in a corner. I could retreat no far
ther.
Our blades bound. There was no
sound but our breathing and the
whisper of steel on steel. In that
odd instant of delay, neither of us
spoke. I knew it was useless to
repeat my warning and he, em
barked on his purpose, had no need
for words. I parried the deadly
spark of that unguarded point. As
tonishment’s half-palsy had van
ished. Understanding came in that
split second, as lightning bares a
landscape.
His face was blurred by the mask
but I could see purpose in the pose
of his body; could feel it in the vigi
lant movement of his blade along
my own. I felt little fear. It was
hard to recognize death in a famil
iar and heretofore safe sport. Shame
was uppermost in my mind, and
shame sired anger.
Thought of my own stupidity row
eled me. By a pose of mystery, by
fatuous hints to Everett and Lyon
I had asked for this. I had stuck
my neck out. While his brother and
sister found an alibi elsewhere, Lyon
would silence me so deftly that, no
matter what others might suspect,
he would be safe. I wondered what
he thought I knew that made my
murder necessary — arid then had
time for no further thought.
His sword had felt and tested and
tapped mine. Automatically, I had
Tesoonded. He feinted now to lift
my guard and followed with a lunge
that I barely turned. He caught
my riposte. For an instant we faced
each other.
A strange calm held me. I had
fathomed his purpose and now I
understood how he would perform
it. He was a trained fencer, strong
er if no quicker than I. He held
his w’eapon delicately in the French
fashion. He could have run me
through before now, if he had w’iped
away his instinctive regard for my
utterly harmless sword. But he could
not—or w'ould not The zest of con
test had him. Eventually he would
kill me, foully if necessary, but
first he would match his skill against
mine, seeking a fair opening through
which to drive his point
Steel’s sibilance broke now and
then in the high thin chime of blade
upon resonant shell guard, an inno
cent, mocking sound. I fought care
fully, knowing that my first mis
take would be my last and, in the
fascination of contest, he tolerated
me.
Defense would not serve me. He
could at any minute catch my harm
less blade in his free hand and drive
his own point home. My sole, frag
ile chance lay in a trick. It could
be attempted only once. It must be
tried before the already aching mus
cles of my sword arm grew weary.
The blades engaged and parted
with clicks and brief sharp sigh
ings. The shell guards rang bright
ly. We moved against each other,
“Whatever is on your mind
will have to be unloaded while
I shave.”
cat-footed, sharp-witted, tight-bod
ied. And I felt myself tiring.
I forced all myself into desperate
assault. My purpose needed the deft
ness of long practice, which I lacked.
Strength it demanded too, and I
doubted if I had enough, but it was
my only chance.
The apparent wildness of my at
tack pleased Lyon. He must have
seen in it the flurry before the end,
and so he contented himself merely
with parrying my weapon, wait
ing until my vain fury should flag.
I thought I heard him chuckle as
he turned aside my thrust. And
then, for a flash, his blade was where
I wanted it. I threw my life into
the trick d’Armhaillac had taught
me. My sword whipped about his
in clumsy imitation of the French
man’s deadly cutover. I heard
him gasp. I saw the epee half torn
from his hand.
He was quick in recovering, but
I was swifter. I leaped forward to
pass him and, in the leap, brought
my own weapon down like a whip
across the knuckles of his sword
hand.
He grunted. Behind me, I heard
the ringing clatter of the dropped
epee. I reached the table and tore
off the mask with my left hand. My
right gripped the ornate hilt of a
sixteenth-century Italian rapier.
With the long blade ready, I whirled.
Lyon had made no effort to re
trieve his fallen sword. He had tak
en off his mask and was sucking
with a slight frown the hand I had
struck. His calm was more shock
ing than fury. It saved his life for,
at the instant, I should have run
him through right gladly. Lyon
looked up from his injury with a
rueful smile and his words made me
feel that I had reached in dark
ness for a step that was not there.
“Effective,” he said quietly,
“though perhaps not quite ortho
dox.”
He seemed for the first time to
see the long sword in my hand and
lifted his eyebrows. He was still
breathing fast but was quite unruf
fled. I wondered, for a wild in
stant, which one of us was mad. His
dignity, the normal furnishings of
the room, mocked my recent ter
ror. Yet I kept the rapier ready.
“Entirely unorthodox,” I agreed,
striving to match his self-possession,
“but necessary. And now that we’ve
—enlightened each other, I'll be go
ing.”
His bewilderment, as I backed
toward the door, gathering up my
outer clothing, made me feel silly.
“I don’t understand,” said Lyon
slowly.
“Neither,” I told him, “do I.”
With the table between him and
me and the door behind me, I let
go of the rapier and laying aside
overcoat and hat, thrust myself into
my jacket. I kept my eyes on him.
His expression was so perfectly as
tonished that it quickened a doubt.
This made me angry at myself and
I snapped:
"You can stop registering purity
of heart. Look at your epee.”
He stared at the weapon on the
floor before him. glanced at me in
something like fright and, bending,
picked it up. He reached out his
left hand and tried the broken point
with his thumb.
"My God!” he said at last
"Exactly,” 1 answered.
Color quickened his tanned face.
He looked from me to the weapon
and back again.
"It's—it’s—why—” he babbled and
then burst out: “Good Lord, Mal
lory, I might have killed you."
I admired his acting—if acting it
were—and was ashamed of myself
for even questioning its fraudulence.
I said:
"That was my impression, too.”
"You thought,” he groped, “you
thought that I would—I never looked.
The button must have snapped—it
must be about. Ah!”
He bent down on his side of the
table and rose with the little blob of
waxed thread in his hand. It wab
bled on his trembling palm.
"It snapped off,” he said in a
hushed voice. "It must have when
I tried the steel.”
The memory of the weapon, flung
ceilingward by its own resilience,
shook my belief. Lyon rocked it
further now by asking in mixed in
dignation and reproach:
“Why didn’t you tell me, man?
Am I not in enough trouble without
—that?”
He swore proficiently.
I asked:
“Are you deaf, by any chance?
Or maybe it’s just a bad memory.
I did tell you. Perhaps I should
have stopped to write.”
Lyon looked at me a long min
ute. His question was simple and
dazing as a punch in the jaw.
“Didn’t you know that I was deaf?”
I pulled myself together and
jeered:
“Congratulations on a fast recov
ery.”
He shook his head.
“My boy, I can read lips, but I’m
quite deaf.”
The smile vanished from his lean
face and dim horror succeeded it.
“I heard you call,” he said. His
voice shook a little. “I couldn’t tell
what you were saying. Your face
was masked. I thought—” He broke
off savagely and shrugged.
.“What in hell,” he stormed, “do
you care what I think? Or for my
apology? Or for the fact that I'll
never touch sword again? You
thought, you had every right to think
—But why, Mallory, in heaven's
name, should I want to kill you?”
I didn’t know whether he were
honest or not. I knew that I could
serve myself best by letting him
think I believed him so.
“That question,” I told him, “also
occurred to me.”
He drew himself together with a
shudder.
"Well,” he said and gave a crook
ed smile, "you’ve given me some
thing else to think about, anyway.
If the police had found a second
body—I wish there were something
I could do or say or offer as apology
for—”
“Let it go at that, I broke in. I
picked up my hat and coat and left.
He made no movement to follow me.
I had a bare hour to change and
return to the Paget apartment when
I reached my lodging house. I gal
loped up the stair, thrust open the
door and paused, staring.
“Hi, accomplice," said Jerry
Cochrane, "I began to think you’d
moved again.”
He sat beneath the lighted wall
bracket and gave a bland smile. I
was not too hospitable.
“Whatever," I told him, "is on
your mind will have to be unloaded
while I shave and dress. I’ve got
a date.”
“Oh-ho,” crooned Cochrane, and
looked at me with fake mildness.
“Something more important than
your duty to your paper, for which
every reporter worthy of the name
would give his life blood?”
“In round numbers, about a thou
sand times as important—to me.”
I told him where I was going
while I stripped off coat, vest and
shirt. He said mildly:
“For a country lad, you aim high,
Mister.”
I let that pass.
Cochrane droned:
“I’ve found out something.”
"So what?” I wasn’t encouraging.
He blinked and beamed.
"You remember the guy I told you
about, who went gold hunting with
Lyon Ferriter, and never came
back?”
The question stopped me as I
turned toward the bureau for my
shaving kit. I nodded.
"Horstman, wasn’t it?”
"The same.” Cochrane droned.
"This Everett Ferriter, the broth
er, does he look like a Heinie?”
“Is this,” I asked, rasped by the
knowledge that he hid something,
"a game of twenty questions? If
so, let’s postpone it. Look like a
Heinie? Of course he doesn’t. He’s
got a phony Oxford accent, a little
waxed mustache, a faintly mauve
manner and a letch for cologne. He
wears a funny expression, half hau
teur, half imminent sneeze. He’s
no German.”
(TO HE CONTINUED
America’s Land ‘Warships’
Dur.ng the German blitzkrieg the tank took its place as the
most deadly of military iveapons in land fighting. While America
has the best tanks in the world, we haven't enough of them, al
though we are industrially equipped to turn them out in gross lots.
So let us give our army tanks—so many tanks that not even all the
armies of the rest of the world combined ivould dare attack us.
I hese photos were taken at Fort George Meade, Maryland.
SINISTER SHADOW . . . Yes, it may be
sinister, but we could use a lot more of these
shadows on our side of the fence. This medi
um-size tank is climbing a steep grade.
Left: Medium tank in action in wooded terrain. Small trees
are no obstacles to the juggernauts. They mow them down like
grass. This one has a machine gun and a small cannon. Right:
This IJ. S. tank soldier received the gash on his face during a prac
tice run. Tankers wear special helmets to prevent head injuries
when tossed about in the steel juggernaut.
Top: This tank, armed with
machine guns and small cannon,
spots a “scouting plane” during
maneuvers. Tanks have been
found vulnerable to airplane fire
in the European war.
Center: Turning at high speed,
this tank tossed the real estate
sky high. This tank can hit bet
ter than .30 miles per hour in
the rough.
Left: Just as the cavalryman
had to look after his horse, the
tank soldier must care for his
steed of steel. This is washday
for the tank after a run through
the rough at Fort George Meade.
WAR ON WEEDS
EASIER IN FALL
Chlorates Less Effective in
Summertime.
By J. C. HACKLEMAN
(Crept Extension Specitlitt. Unieersitf et
Illinois.)
You can kill three times as much
quackgrass with the same amount
of chlorates by applying them in the
fall instead of in the middle of the
growing season.
Then while the quackgrass is still
groggy next spring, give it the final
knockout blow.
More recent work indicates that
somewhat the same thing may ap
ply to the control of sow thistle,
leafy spurge and hoary cress.
The general rule for killing weeds
with chlorates is to apply the chemi
cal during early November at the
rate of three or four pounds for
each square rod for the worst weeds,
such as bindweed, hoary cress or
perennial peppergrass and leafy
spurge.
Then next April or May this treat
ment can be followed by a second
application to prevent the weeds
from regaining their vigor lost by
the first j)oironing.
Experil i;nts conducted by the
university show that two or three
pounds of chlorate applied for each
square rod in early November are
just as effective in killing quack
grass and some other weeds as 8 or
10 pounds a square rod in the mid
dle of the summer growing season.
The experiments also indicate that
calcium chlorate is about two-thirds
to three-fourths as effective as so
dium chlorate.
The cost of two applications is
about $80 an acre when the chlorate
is used at the rate of 3V4 pounds to
the square rod for each application.
Chlorates are dangerous as fire
hazards, but if the directions are
read carefully and common sense
precautions are taken in handling
them this danger will be avoided.
Swine Fatten Faster
If They Aren’t ‘Piggish’
Believe it or not, pigs will make
hogs of themselves much faster if
they do not have to be “piggish.” El
bow room while eating and the right
kind of service help swine to make
rapid gains on a smaller amount
of feed than when they have to eat
like "greedy pigs” to get their share
of whatever grub is available.
Hog-lot mannerisms of this kind
are worthy of the attention of farm
ers as well as of students of swine
psychology, Drs. R. C. Miller and
T. B. Keith, of the Pennsylvania
State college agricultural experi
ment station, believe, because of the
feed cost involved.
When pigs are fed in groups and
allowed to act “natural,” they usu
ally require 400 or more pounds of
feed in order to gain 100 pounds
in body weight, the Penn State
experimenters found. In a recent
test in which they were fed sep
arately, however, certain pigs
gained 100 pounds on as little as 229
pounds of a ration analyzing 17 per
cent protein.
Factors other than uninterrupted
meals doubtless had a bearing on
the economy of gains, Miller and
Keith freely admit, but they also are
of the opinion that plenty of room
at the trough is important. Their
tests indicate that a ration of
corn, tankage, soybean oilmeal, al
falfa meal and salt is about right
for fattening pigs after they weigh
100 pounds if the mixture analyzes
around 17 per cent protein. From
weaning to 100 pounds, somewhat
more protein may be necessary.
Orchard Grass Ally
Of Pasture Legume
The very fact that it does not
form sod, which formerly was re
garded as a disadvantage, is
causing renewed interest in or
chard grass as a pasture plant.
The bunchy growth of orchard
grass, says E. Marion Brown of
the bureau of plant industry, U.
S. department of agriculture, al
lows for free development of the
lespedeza between the clumps of
orchard grass. This favors the
always desirable partnership of a
grass and a legume, with the
grass benefiting from the nitro
gen which the legume draws from
the air Thus the orchard grass
lespedeza combination has one of
the qualities that has made blue
grass and white clover a favored
partnership wherever they will
grow.
Orchard grass—particularly if
well nourished with nitrogen
stored by the lespedeza—makes a
strong early growth in spring. In
summer when the orchard grass
is resting, lespedeza is produc
tive.
Grain Storage
Once every two weeks isn’t too
often to inspect stored grain, warns
M. D. Farrar, entomologist work
ing with the University of Illinois.
Infested grain may be quickly rec
ognized by its firm surface, musty
odor, and warmth at a depth of 12
18 inches. A careful examination
will show damaged kernels and oth
er conditions which may be asso
ciated with infested grain. Killing
of grain insects can be done at a
cost of less than a half cent a bushel.
Transfer No. Z9105
A NEW note is attained in this
captivating pansy bedroom en
semble. For, besides the usual
scarf, vanity and pillow slip motifs,
there is a circle of pansies just
right for a quilt block.
Yellows or lavenders, of course,
would be most suggestive of real
pansies, but any pastel to har
monize with your bedroom could
be used. The illustration indicates
the use of applique; an equally
charming effect might be achieved
in embroidery.
• • •
Briefly—from thi* one transfer. Z9109,
15c, you can make a complete group of
linens for the bedroom—and a lovely
matching spread. Send order to:
AUNT MARTHA
Box I66-W Kansas City, Mo.
Enclose IS cents for each pattern
desired. Pattern No.
Name ......
Address ....
Follow those 3 stops as pictured
1. For sore throat, from
cold, dl5ojW3Baj*fr*?:
pirln Tablets In %i Bias*
ft water and gargle. Pain
is eased very quickly.
3
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2. To relievo headache,
body discomfort »nd
Pfe.-CTTTT.yer
XIFfnn Tablet* end ^
drink a ^I.Mol water, p-\j
Repeat in 2 hours. \ \
. 3. Ch«H I
ture ifyou hive a 1
fever”end temper*- I
ture does not go I
down — call your I
doctor. _I
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