“For God’s sake, Olga,” cried Seagraves disgustedly, “stop that foolishness. It gets on my nerves.”
Stillness then for several minutes.
Of a sudden Seagraves felt cold. He turned up his coat collar and, somehow rather depressed, sat looking across at the muffled figure of Brandon who, also evidently having felt the night chill, had wound a great muffler about his neck and pulled his ample Stetson low over his face. Seagraves reflected that this would be a fitting case with which to crown a long list of his old friend’s successes. Tomorrow he would congratulate him.
A long wild shriek from the locomotive startled Seagraves like an unexpected blow.
“Ha!” he said, “I must be developing nerves after all these years. Anyhow, we’re getting in.”
Then he raised his eyes and saw that the man, who, he had imagined, resembled Paul Slavsky, had disappeared. So had the only other passenger who had occupied a seat near him. It struck Seagraves as singular.
Another long wail from the locomotive blent dissonantly with the dreary _clackety-clack, clackety-clack_ of the car-wheels, and at the same instant the vestibule door was smashed open. Through it came stumbling, covered with blood, clothing torn to tatters, the identical man who had resembled Paul Slavsky.
His hands were securely cuffed, and he was being partly shoved and partly dragged forward along the aisle for all the world as though he were a wax dummy. His captor was no other than the traveler whom the detective had seen sitting near the dead Terrorist’s double.
“He fought like a tiger, Mr. Seagraves, but I finally got him. He’s one of Olga’s bunch--a second brother of hers, in fact. He heard that she was hard pressed and just landed from Europe to help her escape.”
Joe Seagraves sat like one stupefied. Jim McLean, of the Central Office, cleverly disguised as an innocent-looking rustic, had captured a third Slavsky, but how--where?
“It’s all right,” McLean was explaining. “You see, Renfrow got wind of this fellow’s game, got hold of a picture of him and sent me out to ride back with you and Brandon and the lady. I fell asleep in earnest, while pretending to be, and waked up just as my man was slipping out of the car. I got a good look at his face then and, recognizing him, made the first move in a scrap that lasted through six coaches and clear up to the coal-tender.”
“Why was the man slipping out?” demanded Seagraves, perplexedly.
“Ah! that’s it. I missed you from the car and suspected something wrong. Brandon seemed to be asleep and the woman was laughing. That was enough. I collared my man.”
Joe Seagraves reached over and gently shook Brandon, who, still sleeping like a rock, had slumped low down in the angle formed by the seat and the window.
“Come out of it!” the detective bawled at his companion, “we’re getting in.”
But Brandon slept on. Seagraves waited a moment, then shook him again, almost violently.
“Come on, Larry!” he said, himself rising.
But Brandon did not stir, and Seagraves darted a questioning glance at Olga, still handcuffed fast to the seat. To his amazement and alarm the woman was smiling, triumphantly, terribly. A vague surmise, which had come into Seagraves head hours before, was now confirmed.
There was no doubting that leering and awful smile. She had bitten the blood from her carmine lips. Olga Slavsky had gone stark mad!
In all the years that followed, Joe Seagraves was never able to free his memory from the haunting horror of the thing he beheld when, Brandon not reacting to violent shakes, he grew suspicious and lifted his unresponsive friend’s big hat off his head--or rather off--_a vacant-eyed and staring dummy head_!
* * * * *
Paul Slavsky had not _returned_ as Olga had predicted he would, but a last gruesome reminder of his own hideous handiwork was nevertheless present.
When the first shock of horror had passed, and Seagraves and McLean again focused their incredulous eyes on Olga Slavsky, they knew that the woman, though handcuffed, had herself participated in this last act of terrorism in America. It was incredible, but there, before the detectives’ eyes, were the facts themselves.
The blood from her bitten lips streaking her Patrician chin, Olga sat composedly folding and unfolding her daintily-patterned hands, quite as a vampire folds and unfolds its repellent wings; toying, as might a child, with the polished handcuffs which supposedly had held her a prisoner, and--before the amazed eyes of her beholders--_slipping the locked manacles on and off over her tiny, flexible hands_!
Unearth Vast Wealth in Egyptian Tomb
Rare treasures of art, priceless gems and the royal trappings of ancient times were discovered by archaeologists when they tunneled their way into the funeral chambers of King Tutankhamen [1358-1350, B. C.] in the Valley of Kings near Luxor, Egypt. Describing the discovery, Lord Carnarvon wrote to a Chicago newspaper correspondent:
“At last a passage was cleared. We again reached a sealed door or wall. We wondered if we should find another staircase, probably blocked, behind this wall, or whether we should get into a chamber. I asked Mr. Carter to take out a few stones and have a look in. He pushed his head partly into the aperture. With the help of a candle, he could dimly discern what was inside.... ‘These are marvelous objects here,’ he said.
“I myself went to the hole, and I could with difficulty restrain my excitement. At the first sight, with the inadequate light, all that one could see was what appeared to be gold bars. On getting a little more accustomed to the light, it became apparent that there were colossal gilt couches with extraordinary heads, boxes here and boxes there. We enlarged the hole and Mr. Carter managed to scramble in--the chamber is sunk two feet below the bottom passage--and then, as he moved around with a candle, we knew we had found something unique and unprecedented.”
Among the many treasures which they found in the tomb were royal robes, embroidered with precious stones, the state throne of King Tutankhamen, portraits of the king and queen, incrusted with turquoises, lapis lazuli and other gems, two life-sized golden statues of the king, with gold scepter and mace, and four gem-studded chariots.
_The_ HOUSE _of_ DEATH
_A Strange Tale_
_By_ F. GEORGIA STROUP
The three women looked about the little kitchen. For some reason, each seemed to avoid the eyes of the other.
“My land, but it’s hot in here!” Mrs. Prentis moved to the north window to raise it.
As she propped up the heavy sash with a thin board that lay on the sill, a gust of hot wind swept through the room from a drought-parched Kansas cornfield.
Seeking relief in action, her daughter, Selina, hastened to the opposite window and pushed it up, as a cloud of dust thickened in the road in front of the house. A small herd of bawling cattle were milling past the house in the heat and glare of the August sun. Their heads drooped dejectedly and their tongues lolled from parched mouths.
“My land, Seliny, there goes another bunch of cattle out west. Does beat all how hard ’tis to get water in this country. Jes’ seems to me sometimes like I’d die for a sight of mountains an’ green things an’ a tumblin’ little stream that’d run an’ ripple all summer.”
Motherly Mrs. Collins wiped the perspiration from her large, red face and fanned herself with her blue sunbonnet.
“Didn’t Mamie Judy come from the mountain country?” she asked.
“Yes; we went to the same school. When she was a girl she had the blackest eyes and the prettiest red cheeks of any girl you ever did see. Didn’t look much like she does now! A farmer’s wife soon goes to pieces. She was such a lively girl, too--so full of fun. An’ now jes’ to think what the poor thing’s come to!”
Again the three women avoided each other’s eyes. Then Selina spoke nervously:
“Do you ’spose she did it, Ma?”
“There you go with your ’sposin’ again! Better get to work and straighten up this house. That’s what we come over for, ain’t it?”
Mrs. Collins rose heavily from her chair and unrolled and donned a carefully-ironed, blue-checked apron.
“Seems kinda funny to have the funeral here, don’t it?”
“Oh, I don’t know. The graveyard’s handy an’ it’s so far to the church.”
“Yes, that’s so; ’tain’t far to the cemetry. Always seemed to me that Mamie’d found it kinda spooky, always seein’ the graveyard right through that window there over the stove. Bein’ up on top of that rise, an’ only half a mile away, would make it seem to me kinda like livin’ in a graveyard.”
“Selina, take this here bucket an’ bring in some water. My land, I don’t see how Mamie ever got through with all her work an’ took care of the baby. Her bein’ so old, an’ it her first, made it harder, too. Never thought her an’ Jed would have any children.”
“Things do need reddin’ up pretty considerable,” spoke Mrs. Collins, as she picked up some odds and ends of clothing from a corner, where they had lain long enough to accumulate a coating of acrid dust.